The Day the Rebels Came to Town Read Online Free Page B

house,” Carlos repeated.
    “But why?”
    “I want to see where she lives.”
    “I don’t think you’ll like it,” said the driver.
    “Why not?”
    “I just don’t think you will.”
    “I don’t care.”
    The driver shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay.”
    They went along a rocky trail until it reached a T. Instead of turning toward town, the driver turned right. Carlos knew where they were headed. Just east of town was a camp. He had heard it spoken of many times. They rode for a few more minutes, and then came over a ridge. Carlos saw a cluster of shacks built from scraps of wood and tin.
    As they neared, Carlos wrinkled his nose. The driver saw this and said, “Some of their kind need a good bath, if you ask me.”
    Carlos ignored the comment, though the camp did smell of smoke and horse sweat and milk left too long in the sun. All around were low fires, fed by dried animal dung. Little children played in the dusty lanes, wearing nothing but dirty shorts. Skinny, flea-bitten dogs followed along, hoping for scraps.
    The cart stopped in front of a tilting tin-roofed shack. Peering inside, Carlos could see women in long skirts. A man slept in a hammock.
    “This is it,” said the driver. “She lives with an aunt who came from the South a long while ago, I believe.”
    “All right,” said Carlos, his body feeling heavy.
    “Do you want...”
    “No. Let’s just go.”
    The driver clicked his tongue, urging the burro forward. As they rode back to town, Carlos thought of all the ways in which God chose to treat his children. If there was a good reason for any of it, he would really like to know.
    Carlos grunted his thanks when they reached the tavern. It had been a long afternoon, and his foot was throbbing. He also felt that he could use a drink.
    He pushed open the tavern door, letting light wash over the room. The door closed behind him, and the room returned to a cool gloom. He spotted Antonio, Father Alvarez, and Fernando and sat with them.
    Antonio lifted a shot glass. “To the mayor,” he said.
    “To the mayor,” they all replied.
    They drank and then slammed the bottoms of their glasses on the table top.
    “So,” said Antonio. “What do you think happened to our old friend? Do you think rebels hiding in the desert shot at him?”
    “He didn’t have any bullet wounds.”
    “Maybe he fell trying to get away.”
    “He was eighty-two,” said Father Alvarez. “Could be he had a heart attack.”
    “Why was a bullet missing, then?”
    “Maybe he took a shot at a deer and missed.”
    “That would be my guess,” said Antonio. “You all know how clumsy Roberto could be.”
    They all chuckled and drank another shot. As the liquor loosened their tongues, they started sharing memories of the old man with Carlos.
    “Remember the time he fell off his own roof trying to install a rain spout?” asked Antonio.
    “Or,” Fernando added, “how about the time he stepped outside this very tavern and spooked Madame’s horse? He got himself kicked in the chest!”
    “How about the Sunday morning when he tripped in the church aisle?” said the priest. “Remember how he smacked his head against a pew? How the sound echoed off the walls of the church?”
    “Yes! Yes!” said Antonio, laughing. “And then he jumped back up, saying he’d just been looking for something that had dropped from his pocket.”
    “And meanwhile,” said Father Alvarez, “blood was rushing from the cut in his forehead!”
    “I tell you,” said Fernando, “it’s lucky that old man lasted as long as he did.”
    They all laughed except Carlos. The others noticed, and there was a guilty silence. Though Carlos’s heart had lightened a little when he entered the tavern, the strong drink had brought back his dark mood. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way that Linda lived, way out in that filthy Indian camp.
    Antonio broke the silence.
    “So,” he said. “I guess we need a new mayor.”

Chapter Six

    Carlos’s