Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring Page 15

  The scene made Sonny nostalgic. His father used to take him and his brother to the dances in Bernalillo in August, when the village celebrated the fiesta of San Lorenzo.

  Now, as he stood watching, something in the simplicity of the dance helped dissolve the dark thoughts that had filled his mind on the way to La Cueva. These people were surviving; they had their backs against the wall, but they were hanging on to their traditions. The deadly diaspora that had made many of their neighbors flee would not drive them out. Not until the last person forgot the dance of the matachines would their way of life end. The old men in the procession were like don Eliseo, guardians of the culture. When they died, it would be left to the young men and women to continue the traditions.

  So Sonny was thinking when he felt a presence behind him and turned to face four sullen men. He had been mesmerized by the dance and hadn’t heard them approach. Now he looked at the big burly men, ranchers whose brown faces were as weathered as the granite of the mountain. Mustachioed Chicanos, villagers, dressed in their Sunday-clean jeans and cowboy shirts for mass. Three wore cowboy hats. One of them held a tire iron, one held a baseball bat. None spoke, they just stared at Sonny with suspicious eyes.

  “Buenos días.” Sonny nodded. The men didn’t answer. The wind swept around them and wafted the strains of the guitar and fiddle down the hill where the procession headed.

  Finally the man closest to him spoke. “Qué chingao buscas aqui?”

  “I’m looking for José Escobar,” Sonny answered.

  The man broke into a grin. “Who the fuck are you, a cop?” he said with a glare, and took a threatening step close to Sonny. “Yeah, I think you’re the pinche ley!”

  “No.” Sonny shook his head, realizing he was about to get his ass kicked. But he knew villagers didn’t usually threaten strangers who came to mass and to watch the matachines. Something wasn’t right.

  The men with the tire iron and the bat walked slowly around Sonny. Sonny glanced at the procession as they surrounded him. The parishioners were entering the house of the mayordomo. Too late to join the safety of the group, he thought, and looked again at the four men, and guessed he was just going to have to fight his way out. What taboo had he violated?

  One man pulled a knife and snapped it open. “If you’re not a cop, qué quieres aqui?”

  “José Escobar,” Sonny repeated.

  The man with the knife laughed. He leaned down and slashed at one of the truck tires. The air hissed out. “There’s no José Escobar here. Put your spare on and get the hell out of here,” the man said. He put the sharp knife under Sonny’s nose and backed him against the truck. “Or you might lose your air, like your tire.”

  The others grinned. One of the men, a thick, heavy man with thick shoulders and arms stepped forward. He wore a bronze bolo tie. “Que quieres con José Escobar?” he asked.

  “I heard there was a cattle mutilation on his ranch. I want to ask him some questions,” Sonny said to the man.

  “You with the fucking Cattleman’s Association?” the man with the knife asked, still holding Sonny at bay.

  “No.”

  “What kind of questions?” the heavyset man asked. Sonny’s gaze fixed on the bolo tie: its design was the Zia sign.

  “I want to see the cow that was cut up.”

  “You want to know who did it?”

  Sonny nodded.

  “We know who did it,” one of the younger men said. “But the fucking cops don’t do anything about it. It was—”

  “Shut up!” the man with the knife snapped. “We take care of this ourselves!”

  “Looks like you haven’t done a very good job,” Sonny shot back. He was getting tired of the knife held in front of his face. One swift kick and the joker would be on the ground holding his groin and gasping for air. But there were four of them, and anyway, he hadn’t come to fight. “I just want to see the cow that was cut up. It’s important.”

  The man with the bolo tie pushed the man with the knife aside. “Put away the knife, Alejandro.” Looking at Sonny, he said, “I’m José Escobar.”

  “I’m Sonny Baca,” Sonny said as he stepped forward and held out his hand.

  José Escobar grunted. “So why do you want to see the cow?”

  “Maybe I’ll catch whoever did it.”

  “You won’t have to go far!” the man called Alejandro said angrily. “Just go down that road to Raven’s house. Sonofabitch lives off our steers. You tell whoever sent you that we’re going to take care of this ourselves.”

  He pushed by Sonny and stalked down the hill. All but Escobar followed him.

  Escobar shrugged. “The muchachos don’t like strangers. Since the cow was cut up, everyone’s nervous. They’re tired of losing steers. What does it mean to you?”

  “A matter of life and death.”

  They looked at each other. “Sonny Baca,” Escobar said. “Your picture was in the paper. You worked with Manuel Lopez?”

  Sonny nodded.

  “Paper said you’re related to the old Elfego Baca?”

  “Mi Bisabuelo.”

  “Shit.” Escobar smiled and stuck out his hand. “Elfego Baca was a goddamned hero as far as I’m concerned. Ponla ’ay.” He stuck out his hand, and when they shook, Sonny felt the tough, coarse hand of a working rancher.

  “Mis bisabuelos were from Los Chavez,” Escobar said. “They knew all the families from Socorro. Tu sabes, they were related. Anda,” he said, motioning for Sonny to get into his truck, “I’ll show you the cow.”

  Sonny climbed into the truck. In the gun rack hung a .30–06. These ranchers were used to taking care of things on their own.

  Escobar started the truck and they sped out of the village, raising a cloud of dust in their wake. The dirt road wound through hills of juniper, piñon, and an occasional pine. Gullies and arroyos, scars etched into the flesh of the land, lay like wrinkles over the dry earth. The summer rains would fill the arroyos, creating flash floods that disappeared into the valley below. Not enough to form a river, though.

  Long ago the valley may have been a lake. There were still salt beds on the road to Vaughn, salt beds that the first Españoles and Mexicanos who settled the Río Grande used to cure their meat. That’s why the Abo mission had been established, to Christianize the nomadic Indians and to protect the salt beds.

  “What do you know about Raven?” Sonny asked as they drove.

  “He’s a pendejo-sonomabitche-hippie who came here about four years ago. He and his women built an adobe house. He grows marijuana in the hills. I don’t give a shit about that, but he has no respect for nothing. Está loco. You, what do you do?”

  “Private investigating,” Sonny answered.

  “Just like your granpa, eh? ’Stá bueno. Takes a smart man to catch a crook. Us? We had no chance to go to school. I grew up here on this mountain, working de sol a sol. When I could pick up an ax, I had to make leña. Hard work. We had hard work all our lives,” he said. After a pause he added, “Why are you interested in this chingadera?”

  Sonny told him about Gloria’s death. “She was my prima,” he said.

  “Ah, I’m sorry,” Escobar said sincerely. “Sounds like crazies. La gente está bien loca, you know. Like killing my cow. Why? I ask myself? Why would anyone kill a cow and not use the meat? Doesn’t make sense. They just took the culo. Why? And no sign of tracks, no blood, nada. Just a cut around the culo. Why?” he said in exasperation, shaking his head.

  “Creatures from outer space,” Sonny suggested.

  Escobar laughed. “Could be anything. The boys think it’s Raven. The old people say brujas. Whatever it is, it’s not good. And now look what happened to your prima.”

  Sonny looked out the window at the ridge on either side of the arroyo, a wide cañada they had entered.

  Escobar reached under the truck seat and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam. He handed it to Sonny. “Take a shot. The dead steer’s up ahead. It smells like hell.”

  Sonny opened the b
ottle and took a swig. The whiskey burned his throat. He handed the bottle back and Escobar took a shot. “My father used to get up every morning and take a shot. Un pajualaso, he used to say. I never saw him drunk, but he had his shot in the morning. The old sheepherders used to do that. All this valley,” he said and pointed east and then south at the broad expanse of the Estancia Valley, “as far as Amarillo used to be sheep. Then the gringos came and planted beans. Now we have grass only for a few cattle. The land grant used to be big, now it’s all broken up. I have to pay the Forest Service to run a dozen head in here. Think of it, I have to pay to run cattle on what used to be our land.”

  He took another swig and passed the bottle to Sonny. He drove in silence, as if mulling over his own words. “I got a theory,” Escobar said.

  Sonny waited.

  “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “Could be the developers want to buy our land, so they hire someone to do things like this. To scare us, sabes? I think they hired Raven to try to drive us out. They think if they can scare the hell out of us, break us down, they can drive us out. If they get their foot in the door, cuídate! Then they jack up the price of the land, then the taxes kill you. It gets you either way, qué no?”

  “Why would Raven do it?”

  “For the money. He’s crazy. The muchachos would like to kick his ass off the mountain. He brings trouble. Bad trouble. But you know what? The FBI sent one of the state cops to tell us to keep away from Raven. Why the hell are they protecting him?”

  Good question, Sonny thought, and shrugged.

  Escobar stopped the truck at the edge of a clearing in the sandy arroyo. Sonny sniffed, immediately catching the scent of the dead carcass.

  Ahead of them, in the middle of the flat arroyo, lay the hump of the dead cow. The sides of the arroyo rose fifty feet on either side, cliffs spotted with juniper, piñon, and yucca, with a few ponderosa pines at the top. A flock of crows were feeding on the carcass, joined by a couple of turkey vultures.

  “I was gonna bring some lime and cover it,” Escobar said as he got out of the truck, “but I got busy painting the church for the fiesta.” He slammed the door shut and the dark birds lifted with raucous cries into the nearby trees. They would wait to resume their meal.

  Sonny looked at the dead cow The stench was sickening; it permeated the hot, still air. Escobar took a handkerchief from his pocket, splashed whiskey on it, and covered his mouth and nose. He motioned for Sonny to do the same.

  “The sons-of-bitches picked one of my milk cows,” Escobar cursed as they approached the dead cow. “Whoever did it didn’t take the meat, they just killed it. They drained the blood. There was a cut in her throat, just a little hole, like a needle. You can’t see anything now. They cut away the female part, clean as a whistle. Why kill a cow for the blood and the culo? Crazy, no?”

  Sonny nodded. “Did you find any signs?”

  “No tire tracks. Whoever did it walked in, but left no footprints. My wife says it’s brujeria. They are crazy witches as far as I’m concerned.” The frustrated Escobar shrugged, his thick eyebrows registering a frown. “I don’t know. I don’t believe in that stuff, but I see something like this, and …”

  Large green flies glistening in the sun buzzed around the dead heifer. A dry breeze scuffled down the arroyo. Even through the whiskey-stained handkerchiefs, the stench was unbearable. Sonny’s stomach went queasy.

  “When you found it, did you find any feathers close by?” he asked. He looked at the crows and the vultures that had flown to the nearby trees when they approached the cow.

  “Feathers?” Escobar repeated. “Yeah, some black ones. Just the crows, I guess. I remember because some were right where they cut away the culo.”

  “Anything else?” Sonny asked as he begin to walk in a wide circle around the cow. He had a hunch, and when he found the first freshly turned stone, he knew his guess was right. Whoever it was had made a ring of stones around the dead cow.

  “No, nada. Qué buscas?” Escobar asked from the truck, hanging back because of the stench.

  Sonny pointed. “Did you see the stones?” The rough circle of stones had been placed around the dead cow. Someone not looking for it wouldn’t see it. Four radiating lines spread away from the circle, one in each direction.

  “I didn’t pay attention.” Escobar shook his head. “What does it mean?”

  Ceremony of blood, Sonny thought. Blood, the cow’s blood and vagina taken for a ceremony. Sacrifice. They will put signs in your path to mislead you, the words of don Eliseo resounded in his mind. They will lead you into their darkness. Something wasn’t right. Sonny shivered. Suddenly he knew he had walked into a trap.

  “Cuidado!” don Eliseo said, his voice a warning in the wind that swept through the trees and down the sandy arroyo.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Sonny said and started toward the truck, walking confidently, trying to show no fear, but sure now that he was being watched. He could feel his sweat prickling and smell the danger, like a coyote can smell the scent of man. Up there, on the ridge, and damnit! He had walked in cold! He thought of his pistol, his Bisabuelo’s Colt .45. Back in his truck in La Cueva!

  He was halfway to the truck when a shot rang out. It whistled past his ear, so close he thought he felt the heat of the bullet. He hit the ground and rolled against an old, dead piñon tree stump. A second shot rang out and with a thud embedded itself into the tree. Sonny hugged the earth and the tree stump as close as he could. If he sprinted for the truck, he doubted he would make it. The sniper had him pinned.

  He looked up at the ridge of the north side of the cliff. There was a glint of metal, then another shot. The dirt exploded near Sonny’s feet. The sniper was going to play cat and mouse with him, knowing he could blow Sonny’s brains out when he wished. Sonny thought he heard laughter. He looked toward the truck for Escobar. The rancher had disappeared.

  Another shot rang out and spit up dirt in front of Sonny’s face. The rifleman had him trapped and in range. The next shot would split his head open.

  Thoughts of his mother flitted through his mind. He thought of Rita; he should have married her, had kids, gone back to teaching, pushed tacos at the restaurant in the summer. He was no Elfego Baca! He wondered how the old lawman would get out of a mess like this, but he knew the Bisabuelo would never be caught out in the open, unarmed. And he, Sonny Baca, had waltzed right into the danger.

  In those short seconds he saw his life before his eyes, old friends, scenes, the pungent smell of red chile in his mother’s blender, the garlic, diced onions, corn tortillas sizzling and floating as they were dropped into hot grease, gang fights, people he had loved, known, Gloria, countless encounters, dreams, Rita’s body glistening with sweat and love, her voice, the excitement that rushed in his blood, then a pack of coyotes running along the river bosque, calling his name, and in their midst the creaking cart of la muerte, doña Sebastíana, her smiling skull of death, ribs exposed, withered leatherlike breasts clinging to her bony chest, stringy hair, her calling his name now and notching her arrow to the bow, laughing as she let loose the whistling arrow of death, sibilant as his prayer, “Padre Nuestro que estás en cielo, santoficado sea tu nombre.…”

  He thought of all the times he wanted to be a hero, save someone, save himself in a confrontation against the enemy, against evil, and knew that he didn’t have that violence in him.

  “Pray for me now and at the hour of my death—”

  His words and thoughts were scattered by the thunderous report of a rifle exploding near the truck. The report echoed across the arroyo, frightening the crows anew.

  While the sniper was busy with Sonny, Escobar had been out of sight, sneaking his rifle from the truck. Sonny glanced up the incline to the junipers where the sniper hid. Escobar’s shot kicked up dirt near the juniper the sniper was using for cover. A second explosion followed, and the bullet hit the tree trunk, sending bark shreds flying. A figure sprang up and ran, disappea
ring into the trees.

  Escobar laughed. He came from around the truck holding his .30—06. “I hope I got the sonofabitch in the ass.” He smiled as he looked at Sonny. “Did you see that cabrón run? You okay?”

  Sonny got up slowly. His legs trembled, he was afraid he might have wet his pants. He looked down.

  Escobar walked to him. “Someone’s trying to kill you.”

  “Yeah,” Sonny nodded, “and for a minute I thought you—”

  Escobar’s worry frown creased the lines on his forehead.

  “I guess I owe you one,” Sonny said. “Gracias.”

  “De nada.” Escobar shrugged, went to the truck, and brought back the bottle of Jim Beam. He handed it to Sonny. “Take a good shot,” he said. Sonny took a big swig. The strong, hot whiskey calmed his nerves. Yeah, whoever had shot at him had intended to kill him. Escobar had saved his ass.

  Escobar scanned the ridge. “Let’s get the hell out of here. That no-good sonomabitche might double back.”

  They drove back to La Cueva and passed the bottle of whiskey back and forth, so by the time they reached the village, they were mellow.

  Escobar told Sonny about the time he got shot at by a guy who had it in for him because he fucked his sister.

  “Well, I liked the girl. She was nice, and she got in my truck and we went to a dance over in Madrid. So I had a few to drink, and we got a little hot. Not just me, her too. We went outside, in the truck, and I start humping. Then I feel something cold on my ass. It was her brother, and he’s holding a shotgun. I jumped out of the truck, pulling up my pants, and the guy swears he’s going to kill me. I wet my pants!” He laughed.

  Sonny laughed with him, but inside he felt the anger. Someone had tried to kill him, and he wasn’t going to let the bastard get away with it.

  “I’m going to pay Raven a visit,” he swore under his breath.

  “Cuidao. That brujo can fly,” Escobar said cryptically.

  14

  “Mira.” Escobar motioned as they got out of the truck. Someone had changed the punctured tire. “You see, the boys aren’t all bad. They just have their backs up to the wall.”