Neto Ruiz was El Fresno’s local gringo expert. He’d been born “on the other side” when his parents were sugar beet workers as World War II ended. He was a child when they returned “home” to Mexico.
In the early 1960s he told me of the day a young American stranger brought Pepe Rios, still bleeding, to him.
The tall American was swearing, he said, leading a sorrel gelding with Pepe in the saddle. blood leaking from waist to his left foot.
“He told me to bring him here,” the gringo called as I came up from morning milking, Neto recalled. “I found him in Arroyo Viejo,” he said. The stranger’s voice was furious, his red beard scraggly, a handkerchief on his head like woman, a gold loop in one ear. He said his name was Roberto.
“Take him to that curandero, Mario Hernandez,” I said. “He is a healer.”
“He said you were his brother.” The gringo was like a lost child, but his Spanish was good for a foreigner.
“No,” I told him. A gust of wind nearly blew Pepe out of the saddle. “He’s married to my sister, Ofelia.” I reached up to steady him, “We’re cuñados, brothers-in-law.”
“Not what he said.” The gringo clutched a long machete hanging from one shoulder.
“Was he talking awful English at you?” Pepe and I picked tomates in Texas a while back. He never got over thinking he could speak English.
“Somebody stabbed him. He needs a doctor fast,” the American shouted.
“That knife hit a bone and broke off. Don Mario can fix him.” I touched Pepe’s leg that wasn’t leaking. “Go to the curer, Pepe.”
“How do you know about the knife?” the gringo said angrily
“I stabbed him this morning. This stubborn Indian ran off when I tried to fix him.”
The gringo swore loudly: “Crazy Mexicans, remote damned places lack doctors.” He wore floppy clothes, rock-shredded Converse shoes. Some rich gringos sent him here, he said, to help “poor Sierra Nayarit Huicholes,” though it’s mostly Mexicanized Coras over here. He was to put in pipe to bring water year-round. People like Pepe said he knew nothing about pipe. It would never get done.
My sister got him an old jacal to live in. But his whining about scorpions, black windows, snakes – common as dust – so scared his gringo helpers they did little.
“Shit! I’m wasting time!” He jerked the horse around so Pepe nearly fell off. I steadied my cuñado. “I’ll go with you.” I shouted to my sister to hang the milk in the well to cool.
“Why did you stab him, for God’s sake?”
“We were arguing.”
“So?”
“My sister Ofelia lives here now. He’s been drunk and beating her.” I patted Pepe’s good leg. “He got mad when I tried to take away his butcher knife. It broke off there in his hip.”
Roberto shook his head. “Too much stupid drinking around here.”
“You drink.” He’d been drunk on tejuino – corn beer – at last week’ fiesta.
“But I don’t beat my wife.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
I looked at him. He frowned as wind swept dust around us. “No curandero can get that knife out.”
“Don Mario can.” I said. “He’s very smart.”
Pepe coughed. He looked like he was about to fall from the saddle. “Down,” he said.
“We’ve got to get him the San Juan Peyotan air field,” the gringo insisted.
Pepe rolled his eyes at me. I nodded and grinned. “ Too far.” I was going to get him to a healer in spite of this foreigner. My sister didn’t want to loose her crazy husband.
(This is the first of a two-part series.)