The Nagual
Ofelio Oso--who had been a vaquero most of his seventy years, but who now mended fences and drove a wagon for John Stam--looked down the slope through the jack pines seeing the man with his arms about the woman. They were in front of the shack which stood near the edge of the deep ravine bordering the west end of the meadow; and now Ofelio watched them separate lingeringly, the woman moving off, looking back as she passed the corral, going diagonally across the pasture to the trees on the far side, where she disappeared.
Now Mrs. Stam goes home, Ofelio thought, to wait for her husband.
The old man had seen them like this before, sometimes in the evening, sometimes at dawn as it was now with the first distant sun streak off beyond the Organ Mountains, and always when John Stam was away. This had been going on for months now, at least since Ofelio first began going up into the hills at night.
It was a strange feeling that caused the old man to do this; more an urgency, for he had come to a realization that there was little time left for him. In the hills at night a man can think clearly, and when a man believes his end is approaching there are things to think about.
In his sixty-ninth year Ofelio Oso broke his leg. In the shock of a pain-stabbing moment it was smashed between horse and corral post as John Stam's cattle rushed the gate opening. He could no longer ride, after having done nothing else for more than fifty years; and with this came the certainty that his end was approaching. Since he was of no use to anyone, then only death remained. In his idleness he could feel its nearness and he thought of many things to prepare himself for the day it would come.
Now he waited until the horsebreaker, Joe Slidell, went into the shack. Ofelio limped down the slope through the pines and was crossing a corner of the pasture when Joe Slidell reappeared, leaning in the doorway with something in his hand, looking absently out at the few mustangs off at the far end of the pasture. His gaze moved to the bay stallion in the corral, then swung slowly until he was looking at Ofelio Oso. The old man saw this and changed his direction, going toward the shack. He carried a blanket over his shoulder and wore a willow-root Chihuahua hat, and his hand touched the brim of it as he approached the loose figure in the doorway.
'At it again,' Joe Slidell said. He lifted the bottle which he held close to his stomach and took a good drink. Then he lowered it, and his face contorted. He grunted, 'Yaaaaa!' but after that he seemed relieved. He nodded to the hill and said, 'How long you been up there?'
'Through the night,' Ofelio answered. Which you well know, he thought. You, standing there drinking the whiskey that the woman brings. Slidell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching the old man through heavy-lidded eyes. 'What do you see up there?'
'Many things.'
'Like what?'
Ofelio shrugged. 'I have seen devils.'
Slidell grinned. 'Big ones or little ones?'
'They take many forms.'
Joe Slidell took another drink of the whiskey, not offering it to the old man, then said, 'Well, I got work to do.' He nodded to the corral where the bay stood looking over the rail, lifting and shaking his maned head at the man smell. 'That horse,' Joe Slidell said, 'is going to finish gettin' himself broke today, one way or the other.'
Ofelio looked at the stallion admiringly. A fine animal for long rides, for the killing pace, but for cutting stock, no. It would never be trained to swerve inward and break into a dead run at the feel of boot touching stirrup. He said to the horsebreaker, 'That bay is much horse.'
'Close to seventeen hands,' Joe Slidell said, 'if you was to get close enough to measure.'
'This is the one for Senor Stam's use?'
Slidell nodded. 'Maybe. If I don't ride him down to the house before supper, you bring up a mule to haul his carcass to the ravine.' He jerked his thumb past his head, indicating the deep draw behind the shack. Ofelio had been made to do this before. The mule dragged the still faintly breathing mustang to the ravine edge. Then Slidell would tell him to push, while he levered with a pole, until finally the mustang went over the side down the steep- slanted seventy feet to the bottom.
Ofelio crossed the pasture, then down into the woods that fell gradually for almost a mile before opening again at the house and out-buildings of John Stam's spread. That jinete--that breaker of horses--is very sure of himself, the old man thought, moving through the trees. Both with horses and another man's wife. He must know I have seen them together, but it doesn't bother him. No, the old man thought now, it is something other than being sure of himself. I think it is stupidity. An intelligent man tames a wild horse with a great deal of respect, for he knows the horse is able to kill him. As for Mrs. Stam, considering her husband, one would think he would treat her with even greater respect.
Marion Stam was on the back porch while Ofelio hitched the mules to the flatbed wagon. Her arms were folded across her chest and she watched the old man because his hitching the team was the only activity in the yard. Marion Stam's eyes were listless, darkly shadowed, making her thin face seem transparently frail, and this made her look older than her twenty-five years. But appearance made little difference to Marion. John Stam was nearly twice her age; and Joe Slidell--Joe spent all his time up at the horse camp, anything in a dress looked good to him.
But the boredom. This was the only thing to which Marion Stam could not resign herself. A house miles away from nowhere. Day following day, each one utterly void of anything resembling her estimation of living. John Stam at the table, eyes on his plate, opening his mouth only to put food into it. The picture of John Stam at night, just before blowing out the lamp, standing in his yellowish, musty-smelling long underwear. 'Good night,' a grunt, then the sound of even, openmouthed breathing. Joe Slidell relieved some of the boredom. Some. He was young, not bad looking in a coarse way, but, Lord, he smelled like one of his horses!
'Why're you going now?' she called to Ofelio.
'The stage's always late.'
The old man looked up. 'Someday it will be early. Perhaps this morning.'
The woman shrugged, leaning in the door frame now, her arms still folded over her thin chest as Ofelio moved the team and wagon creaking out of the yard.
But the stage was not early; nor was it on time. Ofelio urged the mules into the empty station yard and pulled to a slow stop in front of the wagon shed that joined the station adobe. Two horses were in the shed with their muzzles munching at the hay rack. Spainhower, the Butterfield agent, appeared in the doorway for a moment. Seeing Ofelio he said, 'Seems you'd learn to leave about thirty minutes later.' He turned away. Ofelio smiled, climbing off the wagon box. He went through the door, following Spainhower into the sudden dimness, feeling the adobe still cool from the night and hearing a voice saying: 'If Ofelio drove for Butterfield, nobody'd have to wait for stages.' He recognized the voice and the soft laugh that followed and then he saw the man, Billy-Jack Trew, sitting on one end of the pine table with his boots resting on a Douglas chair.
Billy-Jack Trew was a deputy. Val Dodson, his boss, the Dona Ana sheriff, sat a seat away from him with his elbows on the pine boards. They had come down from Tularosa, stopping for a drink before going on to Mesilla. Billy-Jack Trew said in Spanish, 'Ofelio, how does it go?'
The old man nodded. 'It passes well,' he said, and smiled, because Billy-Jack was a man you smiled at even though you knew him slightly and saw him less than once in a month.
'Up there at that horse pasture,' the deputy said, 'I hear Joe Slidell's got some mounts of his own.'
Ofelio nodded. 'I think so. Senor Stam does not own all of them.'
'I'm going to take me a ride up there pretty soon,' Billy-Jack said, 'and see what kind of money Joe's askin'. Way the sheriff keeps me going I need two horses, and that's a fact.'
Ofelio could feel Spainhower looking at him, Val Dodson glancing now and then. One or the other would soon ask about his nights in the hills. He could feel this also. Everyone seemed to know about his going into the hills and everyone continued to question him about it, as if it were a foolish thing to do. Only Billy-Jack Trew would talk about it seriously.
At first, Ofelio had tried to explain the things he thought about: life and death and a man's place, the
