getting irritated because of Sitú sitting around, doing nothing, getting on her nerves. Perla is the girl who has kept house for him since his wife died and who he is determined to marry, as soon as his daughter gets hitched. He’s made up his mind though he hasn’t told anyone yet, not even her.
So there was Cruz, craning his neck, trying to spot the Lipans coming down Main Street, when Óscar passed by with his basket of bread on his head.
“Psst, Óscar, I’m talking to you! Gimme a sweet roll!”
“O.K., but only one per customer. I didn’t put much in the oven ’cause I thought it was going to be a slow day, and I have to hold on to enough to sell down at the docks.”
“O.K., just one.”
Cruz keeps craning his neck, scanning for the Lipans, while Óscar lowers his basket.
Óscar selects a crunchy bun covered with sugar (he knows what Cruz likes, it’s his favorite). Cruz pays him.
“Keep the change.”
“Nah, Cruz, you don’t have to do that.”
“Then put it toward my next bun.”
Óscar lifts the bread basket onto his head and leaves for the docks.
Tim Black comes out of Café Ronsard. He greets Cruz and gestures that he should bring over his belts. Tim Black is a wealthy Negro who, most unusually, owns land and slaves. When Texas gained its independence from Mexico in 1836 Negro landholders were disenfranchised when Texas’ Congress legalized slavery and imposed racial restrictions on owning property; Tim Black was granted an exemption from these laws by the new Congress.
Cruz puts his roll on the counter and slings a bunch of belts over his shoulder; they hang by their buckles from an iron hook in his hand.
At this moment, in the middle of the square Sheriff Shears shouts at Lázaro Rueda, the old vaquero, the one who knows how to play the violin, and whacks his forehead, hard, with the butt of his pistol. After the second or third blow, Lázaro falls to the ground.
Tim Black moves to see what’s happening. He doesn’t understand Spanish, which leaves him clueless about much that happens on the frontier, but no language is needed to know exactly what’s going on: a poor old man is being beaten senseless by the sheriff.
Nepomuceno exits Café Ronsard and he, too, encounters the scene with Shears. He recognizes Lázaro Rueda instantly and decides to intervene.
Black watches Nepomuceno’s reaction, hears his calm tone, catches the drift of his words—with the help of Joe Lieder, the German kid who repeats everything in his broken English—and hears the sharpness of Shears’ insulting response: “Shut up, you dirty greaser.”
The merchant ship Margarita’s horn sounds, announcing her imminent departure.
On the other side of the square, Óscar hears the words Shears spits at Nepomuceno and sees out of the corner of his eye what’s happening, but his sense of duty is greater than his curiosity; if the Margarita has sounded her horn he barely has time to get down to the docks and if he doesn’t speed up they won’t get their bread. He hurries away.
Don Jacinto, the saddler, crosses the square toward Café Ronsard carrying his new creation, “a really fancy one.” (He’s from Zacatecas, and he’s been married three times. Two days a week he works in Bruneville, the rest of the time he’s across the river in Matasánchez. Business is good.) He announces to one and all, “I want to show this one to Don Nepomuceno. No one else will appreciate its fine workmanship like him.” Everyone knows that if Nepomuceno expresses his admiration it will fetch a better price. No one knows more about saddles and reins, no one handles a lasso or rides as well. It’s not so much that horses obey him as they have a mutual understanding.
Don Jacinto is near-sighted and can’t see more than two yards in front of him or he would have witnessed the scene as well. But he’s not deaf; he hears the blows clearly, and Nepomuceno’s words, and Shears’ response, which stops him in his tracks. He can’t believe the carpenter would speak to Don Nepomuceno that way.
Peter, whom the Mexicans call “El Sombrerito,” owns the hat shop. His original surname being unpronounceable, he changed it to “Hat” for the gringos: “Peter Hat, hats of felt, and also of palm, for the heat.” He is hanging a new mirror on the column in the middle of his store when, in the mirror’s reflection, he sees Shears pistol-whipping Lázaro Rueda, “the violinist vaquero” (a vaquero being a Mexican cowboy). He also sees Nepomuceno approach, and the kid who goes around with La Plange, the one they call “Snotty,” running toward them. His instincts tell him something bad’s about to go down. He takes down the mirror (“Why, Mr. Hat?” asks Bill, his assistant, “It was almost straight.”), stowing it safely behind the counter, and sends Bill home with a few coins. (“Help me close up shop and skedaddle! And don’t come back to work till I send for you!”). He lowers the blinds and locks the front doors of his establishment, crosses the threshold that separates the store from his home, double bolts the door from inside and shouts to his wife, “Michaela! Tell the kids not to go outside, not even on the patio, and lock all the windows and doors; no one sets foot outdoors until this storm blows over.”
Peter Hat goes to the patio and cuts two white roses with his pocketknife and takes them to his altar to the Virgin, next to the front door. He kneels on the prayer stool and begins to pray out loud. Michaela and the children join him; she takes the roses from his hand and puts one in a delicate blue vase, the same color as the Virgin’s robes, and the other in her husband’s buttonhole.
Mother and children begin drowning their worries in hurried Hail Marys.
But Peter, the more he prays the more worried he gets. His soul is like a poorly woven hat, full of imperfections.
Before leaving, tow-headed Bill had just stared at Peter, unable to understand what had upset him, unable to help.
Out in the street he adjusts his suspenders. He’s spent every penny he’s ever earned working for Peter on these expensive, trendy suspenders.
He soon catches on to what’s happening down in the market, and, instead of heading home, he runs across the square to the jailhouse.
His uncle, Ranger Neals (who oversees the prison and is highly regarded), listens closely to Bill’s report.
“That idiot Shears … insulting Nepomuceno is gonna land us all in a heap of shit.”
Others arrive at the jailhouse door, fast on Bill’s heels: Ranger Phil, Ranger Ralph, Ranger Bob. They’re bearing the same news, and they arrive just in time to hear him say to his nephew:
“Let’s sit tight, no one makes a move, got it?”
They don’t stick around to hear the rest. They run to relay orders to the other Rangers.
“We don’t want to start a wildfire. This is a bad business.”
Urrutia is the prize prisoner in Bruneville’s jail. He’s one of a gang of bandits who help fugitive slaves cross the Rio Grande. The minute they set foot on Mexican soil they become free men by law. Urrutia lures them with the promise of land in Tabasco. He shows them contracts that are more fairy-tale than anything else. He describes fertile land, wide canals, cocoa plants growing beneath shady mango trees, sugar cane. He’s vague about the exact size and location,
