A dead cow floats by, swollen and rotting, half split open. Úrsulo hardly notices, he’s busy aboard the Inspector, navigating with care; what does death matter?
(The floating cow dreams:
I, the rotting cow, endowed with the life of these worms, dream that I am about to eat a mouthful of fresh grass. In the grass, a caterpillar watches me. It’s not like any of the worms in my belly. In the caterpillar’s eye, I see the moon shining at noon. In this day that I share with the moon, reflected in the caterpillar’s eye, I see myself, a cow that’s very much a cow: a ruminating, sweet, edible cow that gives the milk that makes their sweets and cakes.
Doesn’t feel good to be breeding worms…
I’m a cow, not a coffin!
I wasn’t born to become a swollen, drifting balloon.
Perhaps I should calm myself: I’m the cow who used to moo. The cow who dreams, inspired by my worms’ souls.
I forget about the earthworm and her eye; I take a bite of the [delicious] fresh grass which might not be real, but no matter.)
If Catalino or Úrsulo had paid attention to the rotting cow, they would have noticed something curious: Smiley’s frog is traveling perched in the cow’s split belly.
There are those who might say the frog is laughing, though it’s impossible to be sure.
Catalino and Úrsulo are engaged in their usual repartee.
“So you call it the Rio Grande?”
“Don’t insult me Catalino, and don’t get started again. It’s the Río Bravo.”
“I heard you say Grande.”
“Well, yeah, because it’s big, it sure ain’t small. Let’s see, could you pour it all in a drinking glass? Nope, right? It ain’t small, and that’s why it’s grande …”
“That’s what I’m saying! You sound like a gringo! You’re calling the river Grande!”
“Catalino! You’re gonna drive me outta my mind! Don’t do this again … I’m saying it’s the Río Bravo.”
“Didn’t you just call it Grande?”
“Because it is big … That’s what I’m saying …”
At the first light of dawn a centaur becomes visible on the horizon: it’s Nepomuceno riding Pinta.
Joy and vitality break across the open fields.
Horse and rider topple what remains of the tree of night, they are the saw’s teeth.
At a full gallop, they are the teeth of the blade cutting away at what’s left of the night.
Anyone who happened to see them would swear that they were one body, but that would be incorrect: Pinta and Nepomuceno are two. Neither one belongs to the other.
The river doesn’t shroud them the way it envelops Úrsulo and the Inspector in bad weather. The air doesn’t shroud them either because they’re not flying.
Against the backdrop of the sky, anyone can see that they are two independent beings with their own wills — Nepomuceno and Pinta — becoming something greater together — this centaur — with their separate feelings and thoughts.
They jump a ditch, dodge a fallen tree.
It could be said that Nepomuceno is more the animal of the pair. The mare looks ahead, elegant; her movement is an artful dance; Nepomuceno, nervous, looks left and right like a jaguar preparing to pounce greedily on its prey.
After jumping to avoid a rough patch, Nepomuceno becomes more human, smiling and stroking Pinta’s ears, “Beautiful, Pinta, good girl!” For a second the caress turns Pinta into a coquette; then the mare shakes her head and becomes herself again: astute and quick, muscle and brain.
They descend a slope, their nerves singing, they climb a hill. Nepomuceno spots the silhouette of a creature, moving fast, darting through the brush. Nepomuceno takes his lasso, swings it above his head, lets it fly, ropes the two hind legs, yanks on the lasso, lifts his prey aloft.
The fawn soars toward Pinta’s hindquarters. Nepomuceno binds its four thin legs with the lasso and fastens it to the front of his saddle.
They return to camp at a trot.
They arrive bathed in sweat, swift, contented, like two lovers. Pinta’s hooves dance, while Nepomuceno’s distracted hands rest inert on his catch. The frightened fawn — all bare, thumping heart — is piteous.
A few steps from the fire where water is boiling for the morning’s chocolate, atole, and coffee — all three are available and there’s even a fourth choice, for those who need it, medicinal tea (a bitter infusion that loosens the bowels) — Lázaro picks up his violin. It’s no nighttime tune he plays; its rough vibrations stir the world, make the morning cough, clear its throat. The fiddle’s chords echo in the cups that are waiting to be filled.
When the cups are full, the melody turns sweet, seeming to travel directly via mouths, not ears.
Everyone talks softly to each other, murmuring the day’s greetings as they take their first sips: “Good morning.” “Good day.” “Thank God for another morning.”
Nepomuceno approaches the fire with his centaur’s bearing, full of authority and energy, and the music and muttering stops. Voices become more vigorous and words flow more quickly, the violin’s sweet strains cease as they become possessed by the melodies of battle.
In Lázaro’s slightly trembling hand his coffee sloshes back and forth, as if the steam rising from it were tap-dancing.
The previous afternoon heavy rains fell inland (precious rains — they fall frequently on the coast but seldom inland). North along the Río Bravo, the Coal Gang, led by Bruno, met with Nepomuceno’s brothers to come to an agreement on things. It’s no easy business. The market for stolen horses is growing, as is the competition to supply them. They don’t want to step on each others’ toes. On this and other issues the rules are clear, and have been since way back; long ago they agreed human trafficking is forbidden, as is doing business with gringos. Nepomuceno’s brothers respect the rules down to the last letter. As for Bruno’s gang, they don’t buy people, but they do occasionally accept captives as payment for merchandise or favors, and they trade them for other things; but no one ever mentions it, and Nepomuceno’s men turn a blind eye.
As the rains baptize them, they discuss new tactics. They’re no longer satisfied just stealing horses. They intend to draw a line in the sand against the gringos.
“We have to push them back, don’t you agree?”
Bruno, the Viking, all fire and fury and revenge, and Doña Estefanía’s stepsons, who are acting on her behalf, men of a practical nature, concoct a plan. There’s not a horse or cow belonging to a gringo that will be safe. And there’s something else.
They like their plan so much that they begin to laugh. Lightning strikes nearby; the brothers think it’s a good omen.
“I don’t believe in omens,” says Bruno, “we don’t need ’em.”
Nepomuceno had heard about this meeting between his brothers and the Coal Gang the previous afternoon.
This morning, while Úrsulo navigates quickly downstream thanks to the favorable current, farther along the river in the Mascogo camp (that’s Seminole to the Americans) they’re singing:
De moon done rise en’ de win’ fetch de smell ob de maa’sh
F’um de haa’buh ob de lan’ wuh uh lub’.