She too is dead on the spot.
Shears shouts, “It was him!” pointing to Fulgencio, the vaquero, who can’t take it anymore — he knows full well the gun smoking on the floor isn’t Ludovico’s — and he shoots Shears.
In Caroline’s head the bullet has created more havoc than ever. It would have been interesting to stay in her mind for a while: her infatuation with Nepomuceno; the death of her pretty slave, Moonbeam (her companion, who tethered her to reality); her consequent incomprehension. We already know she’s incapable of organizing her thoughts — her head and her heart are like the swamp near the Lieders’ homestead where the U.S. troops got bogged down (like flies in honey); she was setting her own traps (just as Nepomuceno’s men did): clingy weeds, varmints, ignorance, darkness. And add to that the evil moon, stagnating behind a cloud, its cold light ruling the night.
(Some say there is a God. And some of us believe it’s the moon, mutable, sometimes brutal, which calls the shots. It severs the threads of life without hesitation; it takes the good and the young, yet leaves old men who want to die living, shriveling up.)
Shears, meanwhile, moans, “It hurts, it hurts.” For weeks now his vocabulary has been limited to these two syllables — not that he had a wide vocabulary to begin with.
Fulgencio’s bullet lodged right next to his heart, without killing him, and Shears is still breathing. The bullet is like a babe in its cradle — it’s a homecoming.
One of the U.S. soldiers (Captain Ruby) goes berserk a block behind the Market Square, he was already on edge, nervous, the truth is that fear is getting to everybody — not Minister Fear’s kind of fear, but the fear of animals who find themselves cornered by a hunter.
Too bad: one of the gunslingers who arrived with Nepomuceno — it’s not clear who — silences him in one shot.
His death is bad for Nepomuceno’s men, and even worse because Corporal Ruby is (was) the son of Mexicans.
It would appear that, unawares and unintentionally, Nepomuceno is shooting himself in the foot.
The lovely Hasinai, Moonbeam, dreams she’s on stage, half-dressed in tulle, gauze, and a leather belt, barefoot, singing: “I’m a lovely Hasinai, who so many folks dream of.” The theater is packed, applause.
What happens next in her dream is that Moonbeam collapses, she’s in her death throes, wearing a tight black dress, her face that of the cardsharp Sarah-Soro Ferguson, the one who dreamed she was Moonbeam on the stage.
Some veins burst in Moonbeam’s head, her brain becomes a few milligrams lighter. She hears lightning crash.
But her dream continues, and lovely Sarah rises, composes herself, and begins to sing again, dressed as a Hasinai. The audience goes wild, she’s causing a commotion, they love her more than ever.
Moonbeam’s bowels tighten; her sphincters relax, she urinates, she soils herself too.
The dream goes on, but it’s impossible for us to follow, it’s as though it’s been cobbled together into a series of unrecognizable images; there’s no point in lingering here.
“One of Nepomuceno’s men killed Moonbeam!”
“And another shot Caroline, the Smiths’ daughter!”
“The greasers are raping women!”
To contain the damage and put an end to this debacle, Nepomuceno gives another string of orders to his most trusted men, he wants the larger group to stay close to him. “Lázaro, get over to the jailhouse and bring me Ranger Neals; Juan Prensa, go get Minister Fear; the cowhands are going to go round up all the gunslingers they can find in Bruneville, we need to teach them a lesson; you, Sandy, fetch me the Judge, you know him. You, boy, you! Two Eights! Go find someone to help you get Chaste, that treacherous piece of shit … The rest of you stay here … I want you beside me, Óscar; you, too, Jones; if we need to negotiate with the gringos, between the three of us we’ll sort this mess out.”
He takes Shears for dead.
Ever since they arrived in Matasánchez, all Óscar has really wanted to do is visit his oven and bake some bread, “That’s what I was born to do, I’m a baker.”
“Are you nuts?” Nepomuceno replies to him when the baker says, “Be right back … I want to go check on my oven.”
“Forget about baking, just forget it! What’s happened to you, Óscar? Have you lost your mind, too?”
It’s Tim Black who’s lost his mind, the wealthy Negro; he runs naked from his house down to the bank of the Río Bravo. When he gets to the edge, he ties his ankles together with his belt and jumps in. Beneath the water, he embraces himself.
He doesn’t last long. Having run all the way from his house, he doesn’t have much air left in his lungs.
Don Jacinto is trying not to show his pleasure at seeing Nepomuceno.
Cruz his displeasure.
Their attempts don’t last long.
Inside Óscar’s oven — the one his parents built fifteen years ago, where he learned the business of baking bread — Glevack crouches, laughing: “That dumbass Nepomuceno, that rich little shit, what is he thinking, invading Bruneville? The gringos’ll make mincemeat of him, what an idiot. And what’s all this crap about ‘La Raza?’ He’s lost his marbles, or he’s got mush for brains. They’ll never find me here! Fools, losers, just wait! Just wait! I’ll get my revenge! And I won’t stop until he’s hanging from Mrs. Big’s icaco and his eyes have been gouged out …”
Chaste is hiding in the Stealmans’ latrine, they’ve gone to New York. One of the slaves lets him in — the chain they put around her ankle reaches just to the front door, she can’t take a step outside.
Nepomuceno’s men pass right by, they’ve heard that the house (or, rather, the mansion, the finest in Bruneville) is empty.
Lázaro Rueda heads down to the jailhouse, pistol at his side. He’s never been prouder, it’s like he was born for this moment. Nothing compares, not lassoing his first colt, not riding his first woman, not having children.
He walks in and asks, “Is …?”
They don’t even let him finish his sentence. Three Rangers jump him, take his Colt, and throw him behind bars.
Urrutia handcuffs one of his wrists to the bars of the cell, leaving the other hand free.
Everyone’s roaring with laughter except Lázaro, who’s stunned.
Urrutia shows him the key, “Here’s the key that locked you up, sucker cowboy …” and throws it through the cell’s tiny window into the street. “Give it to him, fellas, and don’t pull any punches!”
Blows rain down upon Lázaro. After this he’ll be fit for the boneyard; if he survives in one piece it’ll be a miracle.
At this point a cart drawn by two extraordinary horses, one fair as a ray of light, the other red as fire, pulls into Bruneville.
The cart carries two passengers: Isa and Marisa, Nepomuceno’s wife and daughter, and no one else — they are alone. Someone told them that Nepomuceno’s men were going to capture Bruneville, an opportunity they couldn’t pass up — it’s the “widow” Isa’s chance to have a word with him. They left the ranch at dusk, fearless, and here they are, dressed in their finest, dusty from the road, but lovely and smiling.
Two U.S. soldiers — both blockheads, but not so stupid as to miss this opportunity — take them hostage as soon as they learn who the two beauties are (the women have given themselves away, asking around for Nepomuceno, whom they presume is the victor. “We’re his wife and his daughter.”)
“Who’s gonna go tell the greaser that we got our hands on his women?”
There’s no lack of volunteers, despite the possibility they’ll get a thrashing.
What do you know? No one gets a beating.
But Nepomuceno’s jaw trembles, and how.
“Tell him if they leave right now we’ll let the women go. If not, we’ll shoot them full of holes.”