“¡Ave María Purísima!” my mother cried. She went to Ultima and put her arms around her. “That is impossible!”
“You must take her away, hide her until this evil story is ended—”
Again I heard the owl cry, and I heard Ultima whisper, “It is too late—”
“Bah!” my father almost laughed, “Tenorio spreads rumors like an old woman. The next time I see him I will pull his dog-beard and make him wish he had never been born.”
“It is not rumor,” Narciso pleaded, “he has gathered his cronies around him at the bar, he has filled them with whiskey all day, and he has convinced them to burn a witch! They come on a witchhunt!”
“¡Ay!” my mother choked a sob and crossed her forehead.
I held my breath at what I heard. I could not believe that anyone could ever think that Ultima was a witch! She did only good. Again the owl cried. I turned and stared into the darkness, but I could see nothing. Still I felt something or someone lurking in the shadows, else why should the owl cry?
“Who told you this wild story,” my father demanded.
“Jesús Silva has come from El Puerto. I spoke to him just minutes ago and came running to warn you! You know his word is gold!” Narciso answered. My father nodded in agreement.
“¡Gabriel! What are we to do?” my mother cried.
“What proof does Tenorio have?” my father asked.
“Proof!” Narciso roared, he was now nearly out of his mind with the deliberateness of my father. “He does not need proof, hombre! He has filled the men with whiskey; he has spread his poisonous vengeance into them!”
“We must flee!” my mother cried.
“No,” Ultima cut in. She looked at my father and measured him carefully with her intent gaze. “A man does not flee from the truth,” she said.
“Ay, Grande,” Narciso moaned, “I am only thinking of your welfare. One does not talk about the truth to men drunk with whiskey and the smell of a lynching—”
“If he has no proof, then we need not be concerned with the stories a wolf spreads,” my father said.
“All right!” Narciso jumped up. “If it is proof you insist on before you hide la Grande, I will tell you what Jesús told me! Tenorio has told the men who would listen to him that he found la Grande’s stringed bag, you know the kind the curanderas wear around their neck, under the bed of his dead daughter!”
“It cannot be!” I jumped up and shouted. I rushed to my father. “It could not be Ultima’s, because I have it!” I tore open my shirt and showed them the stringed scapular. And at the same time we heard the loud report of a shot and running men carrying burning torches surrounded our house.
“It is them! It is too late!” Narciso moaned and slumped back into the chair. I saw my father look at his rifle on the shelf, then dismissing it he walked calmly to the door. I followed closely behind him.
“¡Gabriel Márez!” an evil voice called from beyond the dancing light of the torches. My father stepped outside and I followed him. He was aware of me, but he did not send me back. He was on his land and as such would not be shamed in front of his son.
At first we could see only the flaring light of the piñón torches. Then our eyes grew accustomed to the dark and we could see the dark outlines of men, and their red, sweating faces by the light of their torches. Some of the men had drawn charcoal crosses on their foreheads. I trembled. I was afraid, but I vowed I would not let them take Ultima. I waited for my father to speak.
“¿Quién es?” my father asked. He spread his feet as if ready to fight.
“We have no quarrel with you, Márez!” the evil voice called out, “we only want the witch!”
My father’s voice was tense with anger now. “Who speaks?” he asked loudly. There was no answer.
“Come, come!” my father repeated, almost shouting, “you know me! You call me by my name, you walk upon my land! I want to know who speaks!”
The men glanced nervously at each other. Two of them drew close to each other and whispered secretly. A third came from around the house and joined them. They had thought taking Ultima would be easy, but now they realized that my father would let no man invade his home.
“Our business here tonight is not with you, Márez,” the voice of Tenorio squeaked in the dark. I recognized the voice from the bar at El Puerto.
“You walk on my land! That is my business!” my father shouted.
“We do not want to quarrel with you, Márez; it is the old witch we want. Give her to us and we will take her away. There will be no trouble. Besides, she is of no relation to you, and she stands accused of witchcraft—”