La Noche de Los Lobos
(The Night of the Wolves)
The details of the room wrote themselves in firelight as she entered the cabin and pulled the door shut behind her. There was the sound of the bolt sliding into place and the sudden silencing of the wind in the darkness, for the west is never a safe place. She took off her boots and left them. Old Ruiz slept in a chair with his left eye open. The eye had been open for three years since he had been kicked while castrating a bull. The bull had worked its leg free from the knot he had tied and taken him squarely in the jaw as he approached with the shears. The knot had been a good one, and he respected the bull for breaking it. He decided not to castrate him, and had told her father it was because the bull would be a good breeder. He said to her later that it was because he knew he would have done the same. As he slept the light was in his eye and she knew it was awake and watching. Her feet were cold on the pinewood as she put the rifle back in its corner next to the door, walking quietly past him into the heat of the kitchen. The west is never a safe place.
There were light and a concrete floor, an old woman and a smell of cornmeal waiting around a plate of food and the wooden table. A kerosene glow sputtered throughout the room, over the walls hung with cast iron and the wooden slats of the shut windows. She sat down at the table and ate. The woman’s eyes never left her hands, the flour that dusted them and the dough they were kneading on the countertop next to the sink. Neither spoke. The lamp’s small hiss and the wind on the shutters, and her own hands stained with the thin red soil of the plain. She cleared her throat.
“They’re in the northwest pasture.”
“Si. Son todos?”
“No se, Maria. Esta oscuro. It’s dark.”
Maria nodded and sighed. “Si, Bonita.”
Her eyes were heavy and the light from the lamp stung them as she focused again on her hands. She had been long hours straining in the darkness to get a good count of the herd, with the wind spitting dust and howling over the pale figures huddled quietly in the pasture. They knew every fear and sound of a prairie night. Her father would sing softly to them when he was alive. Ruiz would speak to them in Spanish and tell them of the thin cattle and the grasses of Mexico. He would tell them of his wife when she was young and of the man he had killed in Uvalde before he came to work for her father. She could say nothing to them and had watched them silently.
She heard a knock at the door and voices speaking softly in Spanish. The old man’s chair scraped against the floor as he slowly rose. She got up and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching. He opened the door and there were three young Mexicans standing quietly. One of them spoke in words too quick for her to follow. The old man looked at her.
“He says they are brothers. He says they will work in the morning for food and a place to sleep. They go to their uncle in San Antonio to find work.”
She looked at the three brothers and then at the one who had spoken. He was taller than the other two and his hands were clasped in front of him. His eyes were turned down when he spoke and he kept his head bowed, watching her through the tangled black hair that swept over his forehead.
“Tell him they can stay in the feed shed and use the horse blankets there, and that Maria will bring them water and something to eat. There is no room in the cabin.”
“Si.” There was no emotion in his voice as he told them what she had said. The tall one looked at her and gave a thin smile.
“Gracias, señora. Thank you.” The last in slow, deliberate speech. All three lowered their heads in gratitude and quietly followed the old man out into the darkness. He led them to the shed and returned. She was waiting.
“I know you think it isn’t safe. They don’t look dangerous.”
“No, they do not.” Again, he spoke with no emotion.
“If you’re truly worried we can tell them to leave.”
“It makes no difference. The shed is yours. The decision belongs to you.”
“It’s yours as much as mine, and you know it. But we’ll let them stay. We’ve already told them they can. I’ll lock the door after Maria brings them their meal.”
“I will tell her, and lock it myself. You must go to sleep.” This said in a tone not to be argued with.
“Alright. Buenas noches, Ruiz.”
“Buenas noches, bonita. No se preocupe.”
She went to her small room and fell into bed. Nights in the pasture were too close to her father; the dark pressing in on the pale horizon lights of the distant hills sitting reverent, the lowing of the cattle and the dirt warm beneath the cooling air like something alive. They had belonged to him and he had never spoken of them. She had not known until after he was gone. They were her birthright and she hated them for it. She shut her eyes and heard the door open and close as Maria left.
The slats of her window rattled softly in the wind. She lay silent until she heard the door again and the catch of the handle as it shut. She waited to hear the sliding of the bolt into place as the wind picked up and moaned in the shutters. No sound came from the next room, and she wondered if she had missed it in the wind. Ruiz must have followed his wife. She smiled to herself at the old man’s caution. She could not blame him, if any of the things he had told her of his life were true. He had been hurt by more than bulls.
She listened to the silence. It had been too long. Just as she was beginning to rise she heard the door. Again, the swinging shut and the handle catching. Again, no sound of the lock. She did not lay back down. The floor spoke of feet moving across it. There were whispered voices coming from the kitchen. She slid quickly and quietly out of bed and went to the door. Pressing her ear against it she could hear a hurried conversation in Spanish. She thought of the rifle in the corner fifteen yards away.
The footsteps were on the floorboards again, moving softly towards her. She moved behind the door as it slowly swung open. When it reached halfway she pushed against it with all her weight. She heard a hollow crack and an explosion of noise outside; cursing in Spanish and heavy steps on the pinewood. She backed away from the door. This time it was slammed forcefully open, and two of the brothers entered the room. One of them was bleeding from his nose, the lower half of his face shining and slick. He smiled and the blood ran in dark channels in the gaps of his teeth. She had nowhere to go and he smiled as he walked towards her. His open palm crashed into the side of her face and she fell to the ground. The third brother, the one who had spoken before, entered the room.
“This is a good place. We like it very much.”
She said nothing. When he saw she would not answer, he continued.
“We think we will stay. The abuelitos sleep outside. I do not think they wake soon.” The same thin smile came to his face. His eyes looked half-asleep with casual, childlike malice. He watched her lazily, running his hands through his hair.
“We are not bad men. You would call us this for what we have done and what we will do. A man is only a man. You would call this thing or that thing bad but it is false.” He spoke slowly, looking around the room. “Los lobos, los angeles. They are not different. They do as they have done always.” He glanced at her. “Somos lobos. You understand?” She said nothing.
The next hour she spent with her eyes closed. She did not want to cry out for with it she knew would go something valuable. If she kept herself there was nothing to be taken. Do not breathe do not move give them nothing that must be given to be lost. She thought of her father and Ruiz riding together when she was young and when that was not enough there was nothing to think of. She felt herself shaken in a blood rhythm like a naked dance of war and smelled the smoke of the fire and a violence of the earth called up by beating drums that knew no break in their cadence. There were three peals of thunder and a heavy rain and the loss of the knowledge of herself.
Her eyes opened and dimly recognized her own room. Ruiz stood over her and his head was crusted black with dried blood. He had been speaking softly to her in Spanish and the sound of his voice seemed to have been there always like the echoes of her own mind. He had been washing her face with a cloth and dipping it in a bowl of water turned the color of wine. He continued to speak to her and she lay back to sleep. Both of her eyes were open.