Tía Pancha held the children back from the man, knowing the ways of Indians. She took some peanut oil and cleaned Lupita’s and Buti’s faces. Trini cleaned her face too, the taste of dust disappearing. She was hungry and thirsty. Soon Tía Pancha would cook some corn in muddy water. As the men talked, the aunt, Buti, and Lupita gathered brush and branches to start a fire. Trini listened to the conversation as she helped make the food.
“Is your village nearby, holy man?” José Mario asked. The old man was a raramuri— indicated by the three deep diagonal scars on his chest, signs of a mystical trial of indoctrination into a holy order among certain Tarahumara.
“I come from the north. I go to Tumuac to sell my loads.”
“What are you selling, holy man?”
“Lentejas and calabazas.”
Lentils and squash! Trini felt a sudden hunger.
“Will you sell us some?” José Mario ventured.
“What’s mine is yours. No money.”
With this the old man rose and went to the packs, heavy on the mule’s back, and untied a sack. Tía Pancha handed large canoas to the children who ran to have them filled. The raramuri filled each one with large yellow squash and a rain of green-brown lentils. What a feast!
“We are beholden to you, holy man.”
“My pleasure.”
After supper, the raramuri took out a bottle of chicha. Beer! The men passed the bottle among themselves until it was empty. Trini wished she could taste something besides the muddy water, but it was not offered to the women or children.
The old man went to the cabaldura and took another bottle. They drank and smoked as early evening cooled the paraje almost to a chill. Tía Pancha unfolded blankets. The cooking fire had dwindled to a dying ember ash; the men were still deep in conversation:
“Who does not hate the white man?” the raramuri asked.
“The white man, too, is afraid of the Tarahumara.”
“You are chaboche. You are part white.”
“We are part Indian too,” José Mario countered. The raramuri laughed, “Habla derecho y seremos amigos.” True, the Indians did not enjoy or accept flattery or lies. Friendship was based on honesty. The old man continued, “I have lived for a hundred years and have seen the milk of our women full of bile and the pestilence of the white man passed on to our children. The white man steals everything, land, women, honor, and they tell vile lies. They think words cleanse them of deeds. No hablan derechos.”
“The Tarahumara have killed many a white man,” José Mario countered again.
“We only kill to keep what is ours. We do not deceive. White men are the plague.”
Tía Pancha was praying silently on her rosary. Trini wondered how men could hate each other so. The raramuri was speaking again:
“It is the gobierno now.” There was futility in his voice. “In the name of a white man’s government, they try to destroy what we have had for a thousand years.”
Tonio jumped up. “A song, holy man. Shall we sing for you, holy man?”
The old raramuri looked at Tonio and slowly a smile came to his face. Tonio beckoned the children. The raramuri nodded pleasantly as the children gathered around Tonio.
“What shall we sing?” Buti asked, ready and eager.
Tonio glanced at the raramuri, asking, “You have a favorite?”
The old man became pensive, then a smile. “Do you know the marriage of the fleas?”
“El piojo y la pulga!” Tonio grinned. “Isn’t it good that the Indian and the mestizo have the same song?”
The old man nodded. Singing voices rose in the dark shadowed by the cast of a half-moon:
“El piojo y la pulga
Se van a casar
Les pregunta el cura
Si saben rezar . . .
Todito sabemos
Y nada sin falta
Contesta el ratón de su ratonal . . .
Que haga la boda
Yo pondré el maíz . . .”
Somehow the little song about two fleas who must pray if they are to be married, about an old benevolent mouse’s offering of corn for the wedding feast, all nonsense, melted old rancors and angers. The old man clapped his hands to the rhythm of the music. Again, thought Trini, Tonio’s joyous insanity has won out. She felt an admiration for her teasing friend.
The raramuri shared their fire, their songs, and their bed that night. The next morning, they broke camp and the raramuri took his leave. José Mario asked him before he left, “Do you know the village of Cusihuiriachi?”
The raramuri shook his head. “I have heard of it, but I have never gone east. That is where you’re going?”
“Yes, holy man. Thank you for your kindness and your friendship.”
“I am richer by it. Ave María.”
“Amen.”
They watched the old raramuri’s straight figure disappear down the trail leading south. Then, they started on their way east. It was another morning of red sun and endless desert. By noon, Tonio decided to ride on ahead while the rest waited under the shade of cottonwoods that bordered the dried riverbed. Tonio had spotted a hill a few kilómetros away. He rode out with the sun directly overhead.
José Mario dozed off under the shade of the cottonwoods and Tía Pancha kept busy rearranging pots and pans in the sacks slung to the horses’ backs. Trini watched Buti and Lupita climb a contorted cottonwood with a wide, open trunk. Sometime later, she looked toward the hill, wondering where Tonio could be. He had been gone for a while now. Had he found a village? Cusihuiriachi? José Mario woke up.
“Pancha, how long did I sleep?”
“Never mind. You rest.”
“Is Tonio back?”
“No, he’s been gone a long time.”
José Mario walked a way in an attempt to spot him, but came back into the shade after a while. The sun was too hot. It was late afternoon when Trini saw Tonio riding toward them. Tía Pancha was cooking the last of the calabazas and some corn for an early evening meal. Tonio was over the bluff now.
“Tonio has a goat!” Buti called out.
Everybody rose to meet him. Sure enough, he had a goat slung over Sarif in front of him, its feet securely tied.
“You found a pueblo? Cusihuiriachi?” José Mario asked, walking toward Tonio.
“There’s a village. I don’t know what place it is.” Tonio dismounted.
“Didn’t you ask?”
“It was deserted. Horses, stock, fires were burning, but no people. I looked around.”
“No people?” José Mario’s voice was puzzled. He looked at the goat. “How did you get it?”
“I took it. I left money for it.”
“You took it?” José Mario’s voice was incredulous. “Don’t you know descalzos by now?”
Trini watched the uneasiness on Tonio’s face. “I thought we needed meat . . .”
“You fool!”
José Mario’s anger was heavy with worry. The goat gave a bleat as if to confirm Tonio’s guilt. José Mario looked out into the