in town—get him some water.”
“Lo mató, lo mató—” Chávez repeated.
“Get hold of yourself, hombre, tell me what has happened!” My father shook Chávez and the man’s sobbing subsided. He took the glass of water and drank, then he could talk.
“Reynaldo has just brought the news, my brother is dead,” he sighed and slumped against the wall. Chávez’ brother was the sheriff of the town. The man would have fallen if my father had not held him up.
“¡Madre de Dios! Who? How?”
“¡Lupito!” Chávez cried out. His face corded with thick veins. For the first time his left arm came up and I saw the rifle he held.
“Jesús, María y José,” my mother prayed.
My father groaned and slumped against the wall. “Ay que Lupito,” he shook his head, “the war made him crazy—”
Chávez regained part of his composure. “Get your rifle, we must go to the bridge—”
“The bridge?”
“Reynaldo said to meet him there—The crazy bastard has taken to the river—”
My father nodded silently. He went to the bedroom and returned with his coat. While he loaded his rifle in the kitchen Chávez related what he knew.
“My brother had just finished his rounds,” he gasped, “he was at the bus depot cafe, having coffee, sitting without a care in the world—and the bastard came up to where he sat and without warning shot him in the head—” His body shook as he retold the story.
“Perhaps it is better if you wait here, hombre,” my father said with consolation.
“No!” Chávez shouted. “I must go. He was my brother!”
My father nodded. I saw him stand beside Chávez and put his arm around his shoulders. Now he too was armed. I had only seen him shoot the rifle when we slaughtered pigs in the fall. Now they were going armed for a man.
“Gabriel, be careful,” my mother called as my father and Chávez slipped out into the dark.
“Sí,” I heard him answer, then the screen door banged. “Keep the doors locked—” My mother went to the door and shut the latch. We never locked our doors, but tonight there was something strange and fearful in the air.
Perhaps this is what drew me out into the night to follow my father and Chávez down to the bridge, or perhaps it was some concern I had for my father. I do not know. I waited until my mother was in the sala then I dressed and slipped downstairs. I glanced down the hall and saw candlelight flickering from the sala. That room was never entered unless there were Sunday visitors, or unless my mother took us in to pray novenas and rosaries for my brothers at war. I knew she was kneeling at her altar now, praying. I knew she would pray until my father returned.
I slipped out the kitchen door and into the night. It was cool. I sniffed the air; there was a tinge of autumn in it. I ran up the goat path until I caught sight of two dark shadows ahead of me. Chávez and my father.
We passed Fío’s dark house and then the tall juniper tree that stood where the hill sloped down to the bridge. Even from this distance I could hear the commotion on the bridge. As we neared the bridge I was afraid of being discovered as I had no reason for being there. My father would be very angry. To escape detection I cut to the right and was swallowed up by the dark brush of the river. I pushed through the dense bosque until I came to the bank of the river. From where I stood I could look up into the flooding beams of light that were pointed down by the excited men. I could hear them giving frenzied, shouted instructions. I looked to my left where the bridge started and saw my father and Chávez running towards the excitement at the center of the bridge.
My eyes were now accustomed to the dark, but it was a glint of light that made me turn and look at a clump of bull-rushes in the sweeping water of the river just a few yards away. What I saw made my blood run cold. Crouched in the reeds and half submerged in the muddy waters lay the figure of Lupito, the man who had killed the sheriff. The glint of light was from the pistol he held in his hand.
It was frightening enough to come upon him so suddenly, but as I dropped to my knees in fright I must