Tonto

But many first shall be last;

The bay that the Mexicans call Corpus Christi is two days behind us now. The winds are coming from our right shoulder, following us south, and in the morning, I rise first out of a cold sleep among the tall grasses; then the men rise and stand motionless, like burnt trees, smelling something in the air that is not man. They have not eaten since we began. They spit out the corn cakes and beans that the old one calls friar food—that makes them weak. The five children are forced to eat them by the women: the two that are left.

The riders following us gave up the chase. We are as far inland as we have ever been, away from our beloved sea, forced to take cover against armed men on horseback. The days are getting colder, and there has been no fire in two nights. It is dangerous now to try to take an animal from one of the ranches. There are only four warriors left, and they cannot risk another chase, or fight off men carrying the long guns.

The men walk in a line abreast but separated from each other, and the rest of us remain until the old man, walking between them and us, gives us the signal to follow. We will not start running today, since there is no one behind us anymore. Still, the men continue straight, walking south. But they have sensed something. The sun feels warm as it comes closer through the morning. When the old man turns and gives the signal to be quiet, I see it first because I am in front: the oldest of the boys—and soon, I see him turn again, and I signal for the others to stop, too. The group falls to the ground quickly.

There is no mother to son, no sister to brother, husband to wife, father to daughter here. This is what is left from the Tejános’ guns. The women pass out scraps of food, but the two other boys refuse it, as I do. The girls are forced to eat.

One of the men runs back to the group and motions for me to follow him. At the front, the leader tells the rest of us what we’re to do. The old man wants to take the point, but he is told that I will. The old man says that I don’t even have the hair above my horn—although I am starting some stubble. One of the men says that I will grow it today.

I circle downwind as I’m told, and I make no more sound than a snake. When I am far in front, I turn to see over the grasses from a squat, and the first sight of the horses makes my heart beat inside my chest like a caged animal. There are more horses than there are what’s left of all of us. It is I who will break first.

And I do. This has not been done within my memory. Two men will run toward the herd on each side of it, and the old man will hold up the rear. I must tell from the thunder of the hooves when they are close to me, and then I must turn and run across them to suspend them for that heartbeat when the men can bring one down. If any man can hang on to a horse, the man next to him joins in to help him bring it down. In their weakened condition, it will take two.

The horses are too fast for me, and when I can no longer keep myself from turning, they are right on top of me. I was told to get away from them to keep from getting killed, but I turn again and run with them, and now, as a mare comes alongside, I have only one chance to grab her, and I do. Now I am being spun around, and as my head goes black, the last thing I see is two arms going next to mine around the mare’s neck. The feel of the ground when I hit it, is like the feel of the bed of rushes that I have not slept on in so long.

I wake to muffled laughter, and a fire. At first, I think that the woman who comes forward with cooked meat is my mother. But I saw my mother die. My father saved me from being dead with her. And one day, I saw him die, too. One of the men comes forward and pulls down the cloth around my waist and says, “Yes. There is a little bit.”

After two days, We come to the river with full bellies, but the men say that it will not be enough to take us to the west, where there will not be many people. We will follow the river for the water.

And in the morning, the men kill two cattle and all of us help to cut them up and skin them. The women start a fire when the men go out to scout, but when the men return, they put the fire out roughly. It is dusk.

The woman comes toward me with food in her hand when I see the flash and puff of smoke coming from the dark, before I hear the bullet hit her and the boom of the long gun. She is thrown into me on her knees, and I try to raise her and pull her along, but the leader grabs me by the arm and swings me, saying, “Run!” and I see him pulling at her before I turn amid the crackling of the guns and the yelling of the men in the language of the priests..

I run alone, and when the guns stop booming, I can hear the shouts of men and the pop of the short guns now, and again. There is one horse behind me and its sound pushes me beyond my strength, until I see the open door, and I go to it like a rabbit to the hole. Dogs bark outside, and the horses in the stalls rear and snort when I run to the far corner to hide.

Fear is a river in my head, and the darkness comes again. I awaken to men talking in strong talk.

“Get out of my barn, Bernárdo!”

“There is one of them in here!”

“He is welcome! But you’re not! Coming like a thief in the night!”

“I’m not the thief! Look! There he is!”

I get up and run and hit my head on the crossboard of the stall and fall. I get up and try to run again but fall again from the blackness in my head.

One man says, “¡Míra! ¡Está tónto!”

Another says, “No. He’s not crazy. He’s a fucking Kronk!”

There are six men standing over me. Two of them are holding torches. One of them wears no hat. He says, “Don’t touch him! This is my property! Get off of it!”

“He’s a fucking Kronk, Rubén!”

“He’s on my property!”

“Aw, hell! Let me cut his fucking throat!” He moves toward me with a knife in his hand.

“Hold it right there, Bernardo!” Ruben says, and points a gun at him that he pulled from his waist, that makes one clicking sound in his hand. “There is one ball for each of you in this Colt pistol. Now you get off my land, or I will drag your bodies off of it with ropes and mules!”

“It was your property he stole!“ one of the men says. He throws a rolled-up cowhide in front of Ruben.

“There is a difference between a man who’s hungry, and a thief. This one is neither. He is a boy. Get off my land!”

They turn to walk away. Bernardo says, “This here’s the only one of them left. I hope you’re the last man who gets his throat cut in his sleep by a murdering Karankáwa.”

“I’ll make sure that I know where he’s at all the time, and that neither of us ever turns his back on you.”

I feel the strength of my father in this man, and of the leader’s. I rise when he motions with his hand for me to follow him. He says, “¿Háblas Españól?”

“Sí.” I have understood the things that he said to the other men.

He says, “Well, I am the first of my kind and you’re the last of yours. We have much to learn from each other,” in a language that I don’t understand. Then, in Spanish, he says, “We have much to talk about. I need a drink of águardiénte. You can have buttermilk. I wish you were old enough to drink something stronger.”

“I took a horse down with my bare hands. And I have stubble on my horn.”

…and the last first.

Noe.