That evening when Antonio and the gerente came up to the trap to inspect the horses he was teaching the grullo to back with Rawlins in the saddle. They watched, the gerente picking his teeth. Antonio rode the two horses that were standing saddled, sawing them back and forth in the corral and pulling them up short. He dismounted and nodded and he and the gerente looked over the horses in the other wing of the corral and then they left. Rawlins and John Grady looked at each other. They unsaddled the horses and turned them in with the remuda and walked back down to the house carrying their saddles and gear and washed up for supper. The vaqueros were at the table and they got their plates and helped themselves at the stove and got their coffee and came to the table and swung a leg over and sat down. There was a clay dish of tortillas in the center of the table with a towel over it and when John Grady pointed and asked that it be passed there came hands from both sides of the table to take up the dish and hand it down in this manner like a ceremonial bowl.
Three days later they were in the mountains. The caporal had sent a mozo with them to cook and see to the horses and he'd sent three young vaqueros not much older than they. The mozo was an old man with a bad leg named Luis who had fought at Torreon and San Pedro and later at Zacatecas and the boys were boys from the country, two of them born on the hacienda. Only one of the three had ever been as far as Monterrey. They rode up into the mountains trailing three horses apiece in their string with packhorses to haul the grub and cooktent and they hunted the wild horses in the upland forests in the pine and madrono and in the arroyos where they'd gone to hide and they drove them pounding over the high mesas and penned them in the stone ravine fitted ten years earlier with fence and gate and there the horses milled and squealed and clambered at the rock slopes and turned upon one another biting and kicking while John Grady walked among them in the sweat and dust and bedlam with his rope as if they were no more than some evil dream of horse. They camped at night on the high headlands where their windtattered fire sawed about in the darkness and Luis told them tales of the country and the people who lived in it and the people who died and how they died. He'd loved horses all his life and he and his father and two brothers had fought in the cavalry and his father and his brothers had died in the cavalry but they'd all despised Victoriano Huerta above all other men and the deeds of Huerta above all other visited evils. He said that compared to Huerta Judas was himself but another Christ and one of the young vaqueros looked away and another blessed himself. He said that war had destroyed the country and that men believe the cure for war is war as the curandero prescribes the serpent's flesh for its bite. He spoke of his campaigns in the deserts of Mexico and he told them of horses killed under him and he said that the souls of horses mirror the souls of men more closely than men suppose and that horses also love war. Men say they only learn this but he said that no creature can learn that which his heart has no shape to hold. His own father said that no man who has not gone to war horseback can ever truly understand the horse and he said that he supposed he wished that this were not so but that it was so.
Lastly he said that he had seen the souls of horses and that it was a terrible thing to see. He said that it could be seen under certain circumstances attending the death of a horse because the horse shares a common soul and its separate life only forms it out of all horses and makes it mortal. He said that if a person understood the soul of the horse then he would understand all horses that ever were.
They sat smoking, watching the deepest embers of the fire where the red coals cracked and broke.
Y de los hombres? said John Grady.
The old man shaped his mouth how to answer. Finally he said that among men there was no such communion as among horses and the notion that men can be understood at all was probably an illusion. Rawlins asked him in his bad Spanish if there was a heaven for horses but he shook his head and said that a horse had no need of heaven. Finally John Grady asked him if it were not true that should all horses vanish from the face of the earth the soul of the horse would not also perish for there would be nothing out of which to replenish it but the old man only said that it was pointless to speak of there being no horses in the world for God would not permit such a thing.
They drove the mares down through the draws and arroyos out of the mountains and across the watered grasslands of the bolson and penned them. They were at this work for three weeks until by the end of April they had over eighty mares in the trap, most of them halterbroke, some already sorted out for saddlehorses. By then the roundup was underway and droves of cattle were moving daily down out of the open country onto the ranch pastures and although some of the vaqueros had no more than two or three horses to their string the new horses stayed in the trap. On the second morning of May the red Cessna plane came in from the south and circled the ranch and banked and dropped and glided from sight beyond the trees.
An hour later John Grady was standing in the ranch house kitchen with his hat in his hands. A woman was washing dishes at the sink and a man was sitting at the table reading a newspaper. The woman wiped her hands on her apron and went off into another part of the house and in a few minutes she returned. Un ratito, she said.
John Grady nodded. Gracias, he said.
The man rose and folded the newspaper and crossed the kitchen and came back with a wooden rack of butcher and boning knives together with an oilstone and set them out on the paper. At the same moment Don Hector appeared in the doorway and stood looking at John Grady.
He was a spare man with broad shoulders and graying hair and he was tall in the manner of nortenos and light of skin. He entered the kitchen and introduced himself and John Grady shifted his hat to his left hand and they shook hands.
Maria, said the hacendado. Cafe por favor.
He held out his hand palm upward toward the doorway and John Grady crossed the kitchen and entered the hall. The house was cool and quiet and smelled of wax and flowers. A tallcase clock stood in the hallway to the left. The brass weights stirred behind the casement doors, the pendulum slowly swept. He turned to look back and the hacendado smiled and extended his hand toward the diningroom doorway. Pasale, he said.
They sat at a long table of english walnut. The walls of the room were covered with blue damask and hung with portraits of men and horses. At the end of the room was a walnut sideboard with some chafingdishes and decanters set out upon it and along the windowsill outside taking the sun were four cats. Don Hector reached behind him and took a china ashtray from the sideboard and placed it before them and took from his shirtpocket a small tin box of english cigarettes and opened them and offered them to John Grady and John Grady took one.
Gracias, he said.
The hacendado placed the tin on the table between them and took a silver lighter from his pocket and lit the boy's cigarette and then his own.
Gracias.
The man blew a thin stream of smoke slowly downtable and smiled.
Bueno, he said. We can speak english.
Como le convenga, said John Grady.
Armando tells me that you understand horses.
I've been around em some.
The hacendado smoked thoughtfully. He seemed to be waiting for more to be said. The man who'd been sitting in the kitchen reading the paper entered the room with a silver tray carrying a coffee service with cups and creampitcher and a sugarbowl together with a plate of bizcochos. He set the tray on the table and stood a moment and the hacendado thanked him and he went out again.
Don Hector set out the cups himself and poured the coffee and nodded at the tray. Please help yourself, he said.
Thank you. I just take it black.
You are from Texas.
Yessir.
The hacendado nodded again. He sipped his coffee. He was seated sideways to the table with his legs crossed. He flexed his foot in the chocolatecolored veal boot and turned and looked at John Grady and smiled.
Why are you here? he said.
John Grady looked at him. He looked down the table w
here the shadows of the sunning cats sat in a row like cutout cats all leaning slightly aslant. He looked at the hacendado again.
I just wanted to see the country, I reckon. Or we did.
May I ask how old are you?
Sixteen.
The hacendado raised his eyebrows. Sixteen, he said.
Yessir.
The hacendado smiled again. When I was sixteen I told people I was eighteen.
John Grady sipped his coffee.
Your friend is sixteen also?
Seventeen.
But you are the leader.
We dont have no leaders. We're just buddies.
Of course.
He nudged the plate forward. Please, he said. Help yourself.
Thank you. I just got up from the breakfast table.
The hacendado tipped the ash from his cigarette into the china ashtray and sat back again.
What is your opinion of the mares, he said.
There's some good mares in that bunch.
Yes. Do you know a horse called Three Bars?
That's a thoroughbred horse.
You know the horse?
I know he run in the Brazilian Grand Prix. I think he come out of Kentucky but he's owned by a man named Vail out of Douglas Arizona.
Yes. The horse was foaled at Monterey Farm in Paris Kentucky. The stallion I have bought is a half brother out of the same mare.
Yessir. Where's he at?
He is enroute.
He's where?
Enroute. From Mexico. The hacendado smiled. He has been standing at stud.
You intend to raise racehorses?
No. I intend to raise quarterhorses.
To use here on the ranch?
Yes.
You aim to breed this stallion to your mares.
Yes. What is your opinion?
I dont have a opinion. I've known a few breeders and some with a world of experience but I've noticed they were all pretty short on opinions. I do know there's been some good cowhorses sired out of thoroughbreds.
Yes. How much importance do you give to the mare?
Same as the sire. In my opinion.
Most breeders place more confidence in the horse.
Yessir. They do.
The hacendado smiled. I happen to agree with you.
John Grady leaned and tipped the ash from his cigarette. You dont have to agree with me.
No. Nor you with me.
Yessir.
Tell me about the horses up on the mesa.
There may be a few of them good mares still up there but not many. The rest I'd pretty much call scrubs. Even some of them might make a half decent cowhorse. Just all around using kind of a horse. Spanish ponies, what we used to call em. Chihuahua horses. Old Barb stock. They're small and they're a little on the light side and they dont have the hindquarters you'd want in a cuttinghorse but you can rope off of em ...
He stopped. He looked at the hat in his lap and ran his fingers along the crease and looked up. I aint tellin you nothin you dont know.
The hacendado took up the coffeepitcher and poured their cups.
Do you know what a criollo is?
Yessir. That's a argentine horse.
Do you know who Sam Jones was?
I do if you're talkin about a horse.
Crawford Sykes?
That's another of Uncle Billy Anson's horses. I heard about that horse all my life.
My father bought horses from Mr Anson.
Uncle Billy and my grandaddy were friends. They were born within three days of each other. He was the seventh son of the Earl of Litchfield. His wife was a actress on the stage.
You are from Christoval?
San Angelo. Or just outside of San Angelo.
The hacendado studied him.
Do you know a book called The Horse of America, by Wallace?
Yessir. I've read it front to back.
The hacendado leaned back in his chair. One of the cats rose and stretched.
You rode here from Texas.
Yessir.
You and your friend.
Yessir.
Just the two of you?
John Grady looked at the table. The paper cat stepped thin and slant among the shapes of cats thereon. He looked up again. Yessir, he said. Just me and him.
The hacendado nodded and stubbed out his cigarette and pushed back his chair. Come, he said. I will show you some horses.
THEY SAT opposite on their bunks with their elbows on their knees leaning forward and looking down at their folded hands. After a while Rawlins spoke. He didnt look up.
It's a opportunity for you. Aint no reason for you to turn it down that I can see.
If you dont want me to I wont. I'll stick right here.
It aint like you was goin off someplace.
We'll still be workin together. Bringin in horses and all.
Rawlins nodded. John Grady watched him.
You just say the word and I'll tell him no.
Aint no reason to do that, said Rawlins. Its a opportunity for you.
In the morning they ate breakfast and Rawlins went out to work the pens. When he came in at noon John Grady's tick was rolled up at the head of his bunk and his gear was gone. Rawlins went on to the back to wash up for dinner.
THE BARN was built on the english style and it was sheathed with milled one by fours and painted white and it had a cupola and a weathervane on top of the cupola. His room was at the far end next to the saddleroom. Across the bay was another cubicle where there lived an old groom who'd worked for Rocha's father. When John Grady led his horse through the barn the old man came out and stood and looked at the horse. Then he looked at its feet. Then he looked at John Grady. Then he turned and went back into his room and shut the door.
In the afternoon while he was working one of the new mares in the corral outside the barn the old man came out and watched him. John Grady said him a good afternoon and the old man nodded and said one back. He watched the mare. He said she was stocky. He said rechoncha and John Grady didnt know what it meant and he asked the old man and the old man made a barrel shape with his arms and John Grady thought he meant that she was pregnant and he said no she wasnt and the old man shrugged and went back in.
When he took the mare back to the barn the old man was pulling the cinchstrap on the black Arabian. The girl stood with her back to him. When the shadow of the mare darkened the bay door she turned and looked.
Buenas tardes, he said.
Buenas tardes, she said. She reached and slid her fingers under the strap to check it. He stood at the bay door. She raised up and passed the reins over the horse's head and put her foot in the stirrup and stood up into the saddle and turned the horse and rode down the bay and out the door.
That night as he lay in his cot he could hear music from the house and as he was drifting to sleep his thoughts were of horses and of the open country and of horses. Horses still wild on the mesa who'd never seen a man afoot and who knew nothing of him or his life yet in whose souls he would come to reside forever.
They went up into the mountains a week later with the mozo and two of the vaqueros and after the vaqueros had turned in in their blankets he and Rawlins sat by the fire on the rim of the mesa drinking coffee. Rawlins took out his tobacco and John Grady took out cigarettes and shook the pack at him. Rawlins put his tobacco back.
Where'd you get the ready rolls?
In La Vega.
He nodded. He took a brand from the fire and lit the cigarette and John Grady leaned and lit his own.
You say she goes to school in Mexico City?
Yeah.
How old is she?
Seventeen.
Rawlins nodded. What kind of a school is it she goes to?
I dont know. It's some kind of a prep school or somethin.
Fancy sort of school.
Yeah. Fancy sort of school.
Rawlins smoked. Well, he said. She's a fancy sort of girl.
No she aint.
&
nbsp; Rawlins was leaning against his propped saddle, sitting with his legs crossed sideways on to the fire. The sole of his right boot had come loose and he'd fastened it back with hogrings stapled through the welt. He looked at the cigarette.
Well, he said. I've told you before but I dont reckon you'll listen now any more than you done then.
Yeah. I know.
I just figure you must enjoy cryin yourself to sleep at night.
John Grady didnt answer.
This one of course she probably dates guys got their own airplanes let alone cars.
You're probably right.
I'm glad to hear you say it.
It dont help nothin though, does it?
Rawlins sucked on the cigarette. They sat for a long time. Finally he pitched the stub of the cigarette into the fire. I'm goin to bed, he said.
Yeah, said John Grady. I guess that's a good idea.
They spread their soogans and he pulled off his boots and stood them beside him and stretched out in his blankets. The fire had burned to coals and he lay looking up at the stars in their places and the hot belt of matter that ran the chord of the dark vault overhead and he put his hands on the ground at either side of him and pressed them against the earth and in that coldly burning canopy of black he slowly turned dead center to the world, all of it taut and trembling and moving enormous and alive under his hands.
What's her name? said Rawlins in the darkness.
Alejandra. Her name is Alejandra.
Sunday afternoon they rode into the town of La Vega on horses they'd been working out of the new string. They'd had their hair cut with sheepshears by an esquilador at the ranch and the backs of their necks above their collars were white as scars and they wore their hats cocked forward on their heads and they looked from side to side as they jogged along as if to challenge the countryside or anything it might hold. They raced the animals on the road at a fifty-cent bet and John Grady won and they swapped horses and he won on Rawlins' horse. They rode the horses at a gallop and they rode them at a trot and the horses were hot and lathered and squatted and stamped in the road and the campesinos afoot in the road with baskets of garden-stuff or pails covered with cheesecloth would press to the edge of the road or climb through the roadside brush and cactus to watch wide eyed the young horsemen on their horses passing and the horses mouthing froth and champing and the riders calling to one another in their alien tongue and passing in a muted fury that seemed scarcely to be contained in the space allotted them and yet leaving all unchanged where they had been: dust, sunlight, a singing bird.