“Quick, Snotty!” It’s La Plange’s fault the kid’s got stuck with this nickname.
Alicia, Captain Boyle’s Mexican wife—wagging tongues say she’s not his only one—sets down her new earthenware pot, which is filled with berries she just bought from Joe. “Good heavens!”
A step behind Alicia, Joe, the Lieders’ oldest son, nervously scratches the earth with his bare feet. With the few words he knows in Spanish and English (no one understands the Germans because they speak with such a strange accent), supplemented by gestures, he’s trying to sell the harvest his mother worked so hard to gather. He’s so fidgety that he’s accidentally struck by the ring of belts the trapper, Cruz, has hanging from his shoulder.
Right behind Joe is Dry Whitman, a teetotaler from the Temperance Society. He’s been in town for four months preaching the virtues of sobriety, persecuting drunkards, and pestering the owners of establishments that sell alcohol, threatening them with the fires of hell.
Nepomuceno repeats his question:
“What’s going on here?”
Joe explains to Nepomuceno in his broken Spanish.
“Leave the poor man alone, Mister Shears.” Nepomuceno is not prepared to call this imbecile “Sheriff.” “I’ll take care of this. Just a few words to help him see…”
And without waiting for an answer, Nepomuceno begins: “Lázaro, arise and walk …”
Laughter. The joke strikes a chord. Good old Nepo! He’s so witty!
That’s when Sheriff Shears spits the phrase at Nepomuceno we’ve already heard, “Shut up, you dirty greaser.” And that’s when Snotty, La Plange’s apprentice, runs to get the tripod, camera, and other equipment, thereby missing the insult.
Frank hears it while he’s repeating his orders to himself, And make it snappy!, to avoid forgetting them. He hastens his pace.
Everyone else stands stock still, it’s the calm before the storm, even though a breeze from the Gulf, warm and salty, has kicked up.
A tense second passes, a long one, the kind that existed back in the days when everyone carried Colts. Three more seconds pass in the same manner.
Six seconds.
Not even the birds are moving; just the hair on Sandy’s head (the town coquette), and Nepomuceno’s (which looks reddish in the sun), and Joe’s blond shock of hair. Their hair moves in the breeze, waving on their heads, a controlled flight of sorts, sweet and gentle.
Twelve seconds. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty.
A hat flies off someone’s head. No one chases after it. A feather escapes from pretty Sandy’s thick hair, an ornament from the previous evening.
They’re frozen in a face-off: Sheriff Shears leaning forward, his fine hair stuck to his face with sweat, his face twisted with rage, the barrel of the gun (the butt of which he was using to beat Lázaro Rueda) in his gnarled hands, his cross-eyes sweeping the floor, his pants a few inches longer than his legs, his grubby shirt untucked, his five-pointed star hanging from his vest; Nepomuceno stands erect, tall, his bright eyes staring straight ahead, his fine riding pants (made from Scottish cashmere) made to measure by the best tailor in Puebla, his sharp-looking jacket (made by a tailor in New Orleans), the cuffs of his white (Dutch) shirt showing, his silk tie (French), his beard and his hair well-groomed (by a barber from Doña Estefanía’s ranch), and clean boots (only the finest, made in Coahuila).
The breeze blows the seeds off a dandelion puff-ball, scattering them everywhere.
Shears is famous for his temper; conversely, it’s impossible to tell what’s going through Nepomuceno’s mind. He appears to be watching everyone at once, cold and calculating, there’s something commanding in his gaze, except that in the reflection of his pupils there’s the memory of how Lázaro taught him how to use a lasso when he was a boy and of his violin and songs.
The breeze persists. The naked dandelion stalk sways. You won’t find the feather that blew out of Sandy’s hair.
The flyaway hat floats to the ground, blows around the corner and out of sight.
In Nepomuceno’s memory the vaquero’s lasso is dancing in the air.
Thirty seconds. The breeze hasn’t stopped; but the hairs on Sheriff Shears’ greasy head don’t move.
Thirty-five.
Suddenly the gust of air from the gulf stops as if it turned into lead and plummeted to earth.
Nepomuceno puts his hand on the butt of his pistol at the thirty-sixth second. Copying him, Shears grabs his gun with his right hand (since he is holding the barrel of his pistol in his left)—thirty-seven, thirty-eight, all the way up to forty-four and he still hasn’t got a good grip on it. You can tell from his pale hands with their scaly skin, which look like floppy fish, that he’s a terrible carpenter.
Nepomuceno’s eyes widen, his eyelids lifting slowly—his long lashes make him look like a wolf—now his fiery gaze lands on Shears.
The star on Shears’ vest is trembling; it looks like it might fall off any second. Shears doesn’t even attempt to mirror Nepomuceno’s look; his eyes are two slits, no fire and no spark.
Nepomuceno’s men form a semicircle behind him, ready to draw their guns. Esteban makes a sign to Fernando, the one who looks after the horses; no need to speak: if he moves his head to the left it means “watch out on your right;” if he purses his lips it means “you’re about to get bitten by a snake.” (Fernando’s uncle is Hector, the cart-owner; they have the same round face.)
Shears, on the other hand, is alone like a stray dog, he’s got no backup. They gave him this job because someone has to walk around town wearing the star.
A couple more seconds pass, it’s like time has stopped. Fernando unfastens the reins tied to the Café Ronsard’s hitching post and gathers them in both hands; the horses are ready.
Far away someone shouts, “Teencha! Your bread is burning!”
In a split second Nepomuceno draws his gun, he cocks it while he aims and pulls the trigger; Shears has just started to search for his gun’s trigger when Nepomuceno’s shot penetrates his right inner thigh, where it won’t cause much bleeding but will hurt like the dickens.
With a surgeon’s precision, it misses the vein. Nepomuceno could easily have shot him through the head or the heart, but prudence prevailed.
Shears and his Colt hit the floor.
The five-pointed star lies beside him, face down.
Nepomuceno prepares to save his own hide and those of his men, he knows he’s got to throw caution to the wind and be bold, or he’s a goner. Now it’s the Rangers’ turn to be cautious; some of these gringos work for Judge White (“Whatshisname”) and lawyer Stealman, others make their living on the prairie, using their weapons to protect livestock from bands of cattle thieves.
These gringo gunmen are calm, they only fire their pistols for money; their hands rest on their Colts.
The Rangers have just returned from visiting Neals when they hear the shot; Ranger Phil smoothes his hair; Ranger Ralph picks his teeth with a fingernail; Ranger Bob examines the heel of his boot.
More than one of them (they double as both hired guns and Rangers) has the urge to riddle this greaser with bullets, but this isn’t the moment.
At the shot, some onlookers scurry away. Not that it’s out of the ordinary, these things happen in Bruneville with some regularity.