1964. We had recently left the busy port town of Veracruz de Ignacio de la Llave, the Free and Sovereign State of Veracruz de Ignacio de la Llave. Now my wife, I and our sturdy Chevy station wagon were lost. Our sleekly printed, carefully drawn map did not show the unpaved road we were traveling. Ahead a thin man squatted as if waiting for a bus. We hoped his presence meant he knew where he was going – unlike the two of us. We hoped he knew where he was at.
But he didn’t respond to Spanish. As we asked questions, he stood and walked up the slender path leading away from our larger road. “No, Señor just some questions, por favor,” we called out. His Indian face turned away. He disappeared into a clump of spiny underbrush.
Finally, we hit a trail cut by wagon wheels that took us to what seemed a planned but abandoned building site. It sported cement benches facing a clear branch of a river, but no buildings. An ideal camping spot.
The next morning a rancher, riding a large, handsome horse, rode up. There was a rifle in his saddle’s scabbard. With his wide sombrero, he looked like a Revolutionary era photo.
“Buenas dias,” he called, stopping politely several meters away. He nodded to my wife, taking off his sombrero.
“Would you like some coffee, Señor,” I offered. “It is fresh.”
“You’re very polite.” He grinned, dismounting. “Unfortunately, some foreigners that come this way aren’t so polite.”
Laughing, I introduced my wife and myself. His name was Guicho Ortiz.
I asked to take a look at his horse.
“Of course. He’s shy with strangers who make sudden moves.”
Many Mexicans then tended to over-work their animals. But there were no white-haired scars any where to be seen. “No scars.”
The man smiled. “I don’t do that to my animals. You have horses?”
“Not here. I was reared on ranches, taught riding in California before coming to Mexico.”
He nodded, faintly surprised. He mentioned that he was having trouble teaching his teenage son how to handle a colt that had just been given him. “He’s a good boy, but young for his age, and mother-spoiled.” He wrinkled his brow. “I wonder. since you taught riding, if you might give him some advise about fresh broken horses.”
I looked at my spouse. She nodded, and said, “I’m going shopping tomorrow.”
The next day, my wife prepared to go into town just as Guicho’s 17-year-old boy came up on his young, very nervous, handsome colt. Guicho stopped off to one side.
The young horse was prancing and tossing his head. The boy grinned, amazed that my wife preferred to walk to town.
“Gringos,” I told him. “Different races. Different ways of seeing life.”
He grinned more widely and shook his head. Then blinked as I took hold the reins near the bit.
“He’s crazy headed,” the boy said.
“Well, the two of you have to get used to one another. Right now he doesn’t know what you want him to do. You’re tickling him with your spurs, which means ‘go.’ At the same time you’re pulling back on the reins, which means ‘stop’ or ‘back up.’”
I petted the animal’s neck. “See how sweaty he is. That’s not from doing any work.” I petted the animal’s front legs and talked to him softly. “He’s shaking. No reason for that.”
“I turned to the father. “Are there any cattle or calves around?”
“I’ll get some.” Guicho rode off at quick gallop. Eagerly, the boy jumped on his mount and rode at full speed to help his father. He took a short cut through a swath of tall grass beneath a cluster of trees. Then he disappeared.
I heard Guicho swear. I ran past the horse toward Guicho who had leaped from his horse.
“Can you ride home?” Guicho asked the kid. “He landed on his head early this morning when he was practicing to show off for you. But he got right up.”
“To the doctor in our station wagon,” I offered.
“I’m all right,” said the kid sitting on a boulder. “I can ride. Just let me sit a bit.”
Guicho narrowed his eyes. “You’d better drive us home,” he said to me,
“I’m fine, Papå. In just a minute ...” He swayed slightly, then fell off the boulder. Both Guicho and I began pummeling the boy’s arms, hands, chest. Guicho could find only a faint pulse and heart beat.
“What happened to my son?” Guicho’s wife cried as we carried the boy into their house and put him on the dinning room table. “What did that gringo do to my boy?”
“No hysterics, Clara. He wasn’t even near him. Your boy got thrown twice this morning. Both times his own fault. Get both warm and cold water. Send someone for Ermilinda.”
“Not that crazy bruja!”
Guicho told her, “Send for Ermilinda now!”
“No doctors?” I asked quietly.
“None you can trust. Take his boots, eh.” He’ was wiping away watery blood leaking from the boy’s nose.
The woman called Ermilinda shook her head after a thorough examination. “He seems to be gone. But I don’t think so. He should come back. Head wounds, brains are strange things.” The mother rushed sobbing from the room.
“When did he have his first fall?” I asked. Guicho frowned. “About ... six.”
My wife touched the boy’s fingers with one hand and stroked his head with the other. She had helped deal with a fair-sized list of run-ins I’d had with spooky livestock. “That’s five hours ago.” She held his left hand. It was still limp. “If he were gone, the fingers would be stiffening.” She spoke English so no on else could understand. “The day has gotten hot. In this temperature, his body should be starting to smell a little. But it’s not. Feel his head. It’s warm for someone who’s been dead for five hours.”
Outside, I said, “Life, death, suspicion and gringos,” I said. “A dicey combination in Mexico. We don’t know any of these folks.”
“Guicho?” she said hopefully.
“His mother doesn’t like gringos. If something goes wrong, she’ll sway all the others. Guicho can’t control that.”
“And if we say he’s still alive,” I told her, “but can’t get him awake, the mother and others will see a gringo scam for sure.
Her eyes became damp. “We just let him die?” she asked.
“We have to think fast.”
“Shouldn’t we tell Guicho?”
“He’s respected. But there’s that poisonous gringo factor. Most of the people here are from the mother’s side of the family. Bad odds. Strangers in a strange land. A cliche, but true.”
Finally, desperately, from outside, I motioned to Guicho. “I know this will seem harsh, but think of it carefully with your son’s life in the balance.” I described what my wife and I would do if he were our son.
Hot compresses on his feet and body. Ice applied to his head – to get surplus blood flowing back to the rest of his body, revving up circulation. “You – not us – need to get others to help pounding on his body, especially his chest, feet and ankles, to get circulation going. Ammonia under his nose. A small glass of brandy if you have it. All this is old-fashioned. The older members of the family should approve. But my wife and I shouldn’t be mentioned in this any of this. Put some ice on a mirror and check his breath. As the treatment progresses, his breath should show on the mirror. We’ll be over by the river just a short way away if you need us. Suerte.” We shook his hand.
After a two-hour wait, we heard cheering. From suspicion to amazing luck.