The Son

Chapter Sixty-one. Ulises Garcia

The ranch made all its money from oil and gas, and the men from those companies were always driving around checking the wells and tanks and pumps. They were mostly white and their soda cans were always found along the roads. The vaqueros did not care for them and every time they saw a piece of surveyor tape marking some turn, they would stop to cut it down.

But the work was not bad; there was something to be said for air-conditioning when you wanted it, and the money, compared to Mexico, was unbelievable. In late January he’d gone to a rodeo with the other vaqueros, all of whom had work permits. They had been reluctant to take him — a truck full of Mexicans was a prime target and if they were caught they would lose their permits — but he pretended not to notice their hesitation. He quickly realized that three-quarters of the men in the competitions did not live or work on ranches — they competed at rodeos for fun.

He and Fernando got third in the team roping; he was going to collect his ten dollars when he saw a pair of ICE men talking to the promoter. He walked the other way. He waited in the brush outside the parking lot and watched for Fernando and the others to come out.

No one spoke on the ride home. It was no small thing to have a work permit; even being around them, he was putting them in jeopardy.

He was going stir-crazy. He could not even leave the ranch. One Sunday he rode up to the old Garcia place; it was just crumbling walls now, but it had once been a big house, a fortress even. There was still a spring running nearby, and trees and shade, and a view. He entered the ruins of the house and knew instantly, felt in his gut, that his people had lived here. Though Garcia was not exactly an uncommon name.

A truck came up the road, and he slipped out of the ruins and considered hiding; he felt as if he were doing something wrong. Though of course he was not. He might be trailing a lost cow.

The man who got out of the truck was short and baggy, old pants and an old shirt and thick glasses, the look of a person who spent all his time alone. The other hands had mentioned that Mrs. McCullough was paying someone to write a history of the ranch. He had never met a writer, but he thought this man looked like one, like he had not washed his hair or his glasses in a long time. Ulises introduced himself.

“I like to come up here and eat lunch,” said the man. He seemed embarrassed to be breathing. “It’s about the best view on the property, plus”—he indicated the spring—“it’s nice to be near water.”

After they had been sitting and talking, Ulises asked: “So what happened to the people who used to live here?”

“They were killed.”

“Who killed them?”

“The McCulloughs. Who else?”