Close—too close—to his face, he saw some worn old boots that, without consideration, lifted the dust around him, preventing him from taking in the small amount of clean air that his body had the strength to inhale. He saw them stomp on the hand that was no longer his, and he was grateful that he could not feel anything. He closed his eyes, expecting to be kicked, but he opened them when, instead, in his ear he perceived the moist, warm breath of Espiricueta singing to him softly, almost with tenderness.
. . . when the mule takes the reins . . .
Had his body still belonged to him, he would have felt a shiver run through it. Instead, he felt the sword on his neck, ice cold.
But he would not feel the bullet that killed him.
73
Too Late
From a distance, still running, without allowing himself to slow his pace or close his eyes for anything, Simonopio saw the coyote walk up to his godfather and give him a kiss, like Judas. Then he saw the second kiss: of lead, of death. He saw Espiricueta stand up, satisfied, to show his son the outcome of his violence on the despised, now lifeless, body, and goad it irreverently with the toe of his boot.
There lay the lion at the coyote’s feet, killed by the hand of the coyote, like in many of the versions that Simonopio had constructed without wanting to, unable to avoid it, of the story his godfather told him when he was a boy. He had seen it since then but had not understood: he was not the only lion that the coyote bore a grudge against, that it hated; and on that day of confrontation he had feared so, he was not the fallen lion, no. He had been safe at the river—he reproached himself—distracted by a banal show for which he had reneged on the promise he had made to Francisco Junior one morning, years before, at the foot of his bed: I won’t leave you again.
He had reneged on it to watch a show and had abandoned Francisco Morales and his son to their fate. The price that everyone would pay for his doing so would be very high. Life had changed because of his carelessness, if indeed life continued for anybody.
Where was Francisco Junior? Close. He could feel him. Simonopio could not see him in the distance, but he had to find him before the coyote. Had his godfather had time to get him to safety?
No.
The coyote’s attack had not been from the front, with warning. He had attacked from behind, cunning and treacherous as he was, with the heat of two bullets that penetrated the body of the boss, the first target of the day. Reading or feeling his intentions, Simonopio understood that he would take care of the lion’s son later, and would do it at close range, without rushing. Because the coyote is not afraid to face a cub that he can enjoy killing slowly, as he had killed Lupita, sinking his teeth into her, tearing off her flesh and ripping out her eyes, blocking her air, seeing—with surprise—the tears run down in spite of her empty eye sockets, and, growing weary of the screams, squeezing her until she was silenced forever, then standing and carrying, dragging her to the bridge over the river and dumping her there unceremoniously, abandoning the dead eyes where Lupita’s body had abandoned life.
Simonopio did not stop at the realization, the hatred, or the temptation to seek revenge. He kept running, calling to Francisco Junior with one step and to his bees, which he felt were close, with the next. They had responded to his call, defying the cold despite the knowledge that many of them would die that day. Ready to sacrifice themselves.
We’re coming, we’re coming, they said to him as a swarm, in unison, and the sound began to echo between the hills until it became a storm, a hurricane in honor of the dead lion and in defense of the child in danger.
Simonopio thought the coyote would react, but Espiricueta seemed deaf to everything except the sweet sound that still resounded in his ears—one gunshot from a distance and a second at point-blank range—and, to a lesser extent, the voice in his head demanding that he find the child and kill him as well, to blow away every last obstacle to his claim on the land once and for all.
As he ran, Simonopio saw Espiricueta’s face change: under the father’s body, which he rolled over uncaringly, he had found the son, whom he lifted into the air, gripping him by the shirt and shaking him.
The boy’s weak sobs reached Simonopio’s ears. Still alive, but on the way to death.
This time Simonopio let out a roar: he was a lion throwing himself into the defense of his pride.
Simonopio had arrived too late to save one of them, but with help, he was in time to save the other.
Perhaps.
74
The Devil’s Thunder
Anselmo Espiricueta had not been in any hurry coming down from the hill after firing the first shot. He had given himself time to pick up his knapsack and the used, still-hot Mauser cartridge, which he put in his pocket as a souvenir while enjoying the smell of burned gunpowder that enveloped him.
It was not the perfect shot he had planned. He had wanted to hit Francisco Morales in the forehead, to blow his brains out, to destroy his eyes and his height, to wipe the arrogance from him forever, as he had imagined in so many practice sessions. However, Morales had not cooperated, and what Espiricueta had envisaged as firing on an easy, static target had proved more complicated: guessing his worker’s intentions, he supposed, the boss had turned around to run. Instead of hitting him in the forehead, he had struck him in the upper back. It was not the same.
“But dead’s dead,” he boasted to his son.
He could not recall whether he had spoken to his son of his plans, and he supposed not, because after Espiricueta fired, his son had seemed surprised and a little frightened, though he would never question his father’s actions. When Espiricueta took the first step down the hill, his son just followed him quietly. They left the horses tethered to the tree: they would not need them for their descent.
Satisfaction filled Espiricueta’s lungs as he breathed deeply with each step. As ever, he sang the chorus of which he never tired. It had taken him nineteen years—aside from the rest of his previous life—but in the end, he had done it: with a single shot, he had changed his life forever.
At last the day has come . . .
He would no longer live his life stooping, servile. The day had come when the mule lifted its head and refused to recognize the boss, because he knew, like he had always known, that nobody tells a landowner what to do; that owners do not suffer hunger, hardship, or worries, which is why they grow tall and straight and look everyone squarely in the eyes.
And that was him now: the master of his land.
He breathed in the new air of his property, filling his lungs with land and freedom.
. . . when the mule takes the reins . . .
In his reverie, he walked without looking up. He walked without devoting a single thought to the Morales boy, for when the father fell dead, Espiricueta banished him from his mind. However, as he approached Morales’s blood-soaked body, the boy’s absence surprised him. He stopped a few paces away, annoyed.
Had he climbed onto the cart? It did not matter: Espiricueta would find him. The boy was dead even if he didn’t know it yet.
He was also surprised to find that Morales’s body was still alive. He was almost disappointed with himself, but then he realized he had not missed his target: he clearly saw the wound where the bullet had entered the back and the blood running under the body, which meant the projectile had passed through.
He was breathing but choking. He was alive but dying.