Carlos’ expression provokes more laughter but he quickly changes it, pretending to speak with an accent:
“Be right back, gonna get some tobaccy.”
He acts cross-eyed, his eyes either side of his nose, caricaturing Shears.
“Wait! Let’s go visit those guys at Espantosa!”
“Yeah! Let’s go join them!”
It’s because King killed seven Mexicans near Espantosa Lake, in Dimmit County, for delivering stolen cattle. On previous occasions he paid for them, even paid well, and was happy. Folks suspect he had unfinished business with them.
They sit there making allusions and obscure, cruel jokes aloud yet no one understands them, they’re speaking in code. Once in a while they lower their voices to keep folks from hearing what they’re saying because it’s obvious what they’re referring to.
“Say, are the cart-drivers from the south winning the Cart War?”
Anyone watching them would think they were crazier than hungry loons. They quickly raise their voices to avoid arousing suspicion:
“Yeah! Who wouldn’t want to meet their maker on one of Barreta’s wheels!”
A certain Señor Balli went to visit his property, Rancho Barreta, north of the Colorado Creek. A band of gringos waylaid him on the road and tied him to one of the wheels of his wagon, then flogged him and left him to die, laying siege to Rancho Barreta until he had breathed his last. Then they set upon his widow like horseflies, without even giving her a moment to dry her tears, and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse — three Mexican pesos for all of Rancho Barreta — threatening that unless she agreed her male children would meet the same fate as her husband and her two adolescent daughters would be assaulted.
In a very soft voice Don Jacinto added, “goddamn larrabers” (he means “land grabbers” but they know what he means).
“What do you hear about Platita Poblana?”
That was their nickname for a silver smuggler from Puebla. Like others in his line of work, he was murdered by the Texans who hired him. Of course they had the goods safe and sound before they did away with him.
Platita Poblana had had drinks with some of the Eagles on more than one occasion. No one has the stomach to laugh at this one. Plus the mood has become sour, despite their forced, rebellious laughter — their attempts to deny the reality of the Texans’ reign. Triggered by this walk down memory lane, other offenses come to mind: King ordered a bridge to be built, and any Mexican who dared cross it was shot; in Nueces County any Mexican who rides with a new saddle will meet the same fate; cadavers swing from the trees, and they’re not gringos; La Raza (the Mexicans who had accepted American citizenship) are leaving their ranches and abandoning their property, crossing the Río Bravo in search of safety, and even then some aren’t even safe because the Texans couldn’t care less about the border (since they had moved it from the Nueces to the Bravo on a whim).
Two tables away, a drunken gringo — it’s been a long day — thinks he’s having a conversation with someone, when in fact he’s sitting alone: “Here’s what I know: if they’re wearing fringed leather they’re Injuns; if they’re wearing hats, they’re Mexicans; if you see either one, just take a shot and start running. Mexicans are cruel by nature, and Injuns are downright wild.”
Mrs. Big is all alone — even her employees have gone home, the musicians have hit the road too; only Sandy’s cousin is still there, at the back of the kitchen — and she’s furious. The Tigress of the East was supposed to sing tonight.
Sarah Ferguson enters the Café Ronsard. At the last minute, when she was about to head down to the Bruneville dock (dressed as a man) to keep her appointment at Mrs. Big’s Hotel, she received a message from Smiley.
We moved the game to the Café Ronsard in the Market Square.
We already know why.
It’s not a bad disguise, she spent a lot of time on it — how could she not: she’s an attractive coquette — but who would believe she’s a man with that angelic face?
In one hand she carries a walking stick with a golden handle carved with a horse’s head. She orders a coffee “with brandy, please,” without altering her voice.
“Who’s this faggot?” Carlos says quietly to Ronsard.
“Shh. Such a delicate flower probably has ears of …”
“Gold, like his walking-stick, right?” says Don Jacinto.
After Sarah, Jim Smiley appears through the swinging doors, he has his frog in a cardboard box in one hand. He orders a drink at the bar without noticing Sarah; he pays the barkeep a deposit (in advance, according to house rules) for the deck of cards.
Smiley sits down at a table with Blade, the barber.
“Hi, Smiley! Remember the Alamo?”
It’s Blade’s catch phrase, his signature, and he greets everyone with it.
At the bar, Sarah asks for Smiley. The barkeep points to the table where he just sat down, and says loudly, “Smiley! Someone here wants to speak with you!”
Smiley and Blade look at Sarah in surprise. Him? Him? thinks Smiley. He’s the one I’ve been writing to, challenging him to a game? Life is full of surprises! Blade just repeats “Remember the Alamo” to himself; this fancy young man makes him nervous.
Here comes Wayne, he motions to the barkeep (who knows what to serve him, the usual) and sits down at the table next to Smiley. The foursome is complete: Blade, Sarah, Wayne, and Smiley.
“Good evening. Nice to meet you,” he says to Sarah. “My name is Wayne. Josh Wayne. I don’t know what I was looking for when I came to Texas. I made some money. I got some land. But that wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel useful.”
“Yeah yeah yeah, we already know … I’m Smiley and I don’t like small talk. Shuffle those cards, let’s play.”
“Remember the Alamo.”
“I’m Soro,” says Sarah.
Trapper Cruz enters the Café Ronsard with some riding pants under his arm, underclothes the Lipans make for women (who haven’t been brought up properly), which he’s bringing to one of the girls who works the room.
Trapper Cruz is desperate to marry off his daughter Clara. Partly out of prudence (Who knows how much longer I’ll be around, better leave her in good hands because what would happen if I died, I’m the only family she’s got.), and partly because he can’t get along with her (I can’t take it any more, you’re exactly like your mother!), and partly because he wants to be free to marry, though that desire has diminished; his heart, which beat for Perla, must find another.
Who else is going to find her a husband if not her father? My sweet girl. Although today is an exceptional day, although he feels betrayed by unworthy Perla (It don’t matter to me, she’s just a maid.), and although he’s relieved because that vaquero Mateo wasn’t good enough for his progeny, he heads to the Café Ronsard. The day was a loss anyways, he’d already heard about the Lipans’ showdown and how they skedaddled. But he’s not afraid like Peter Hat and the organ-grinder and so many others. He just feels fragile. “Today I’m gonna find a husband for my daughter.” He talks to himself as he crosses the Plaza, saying “What if I die? What if I die?” in a way that sounds like he almost wants to.
As soon as he passes through the swinging doors, the brutish trapper’s eyes settle on Soro-Sarah. Him! I’ll marry my daughter to that guy! And he decides not to let him leave without having a few words. I’ll be direct, he won’t get away, he looks polite, educated, and even better, he’s a gringo! The way things are going a gringo would be best.