Tryant Banderas by Ramon del Valle-Inclan

Author:Ramon del Valle-Inclan [Valle-Inclan, Ramon del]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: D
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2012-08-14T04:00:00+00:00

Book Five

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id="heading_id_52">The Rancher</

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I

Filomeno Cuevas and Old China tied their horses up in front of a shack and pushed in under a flap of cloth. Other ranchers began to arrive in clusters, resplendent in their riding tackle and tall sombreros. They were the owners of neighboring farms, covert supporters of the revolutionary cause. Filomeno Cuevas had given the green light to meet. These associates had already smuggled him arms—a supply lay buried in Potrero Negrete—and there was urgent need to distribute the rifles and cartridge belts among his Indians. Gangers and overseers, Indian scouts and lariat throwers gradually rode in from their respective farms. Filomeno joked and humored everyone as he sized up the rally. He was, he said, in favor of riding into the bush right away. Secretly, he had already made the decision to hand out the rifles, which were hidden in the jungle, to the peons, but for now was careful to keep his plans to himself. The Creole ranchers argued heatedly and voiced their fears. They recognized their colleague’s determination and they would help him with horses, peons, and money, but they wanted to do it as stealthily as possible in case Tyrant Banderas should prevail. Dositeo Velasco, one of the wealthiest landowners, seemed an unlikely candidate for this kind of risky business, but he stoked up on coffee and maize beer and started cursing Tyrant. “Fuck you Banderitas, we’ll cover the republic with your flayed hide!”

Coffee, grog, and meat pasties had excited the revolutionary choristers, and they all bellowed similar sentiments, did a boisterous business in rich repartee, then exchanged mellifluous apologies for going too far. They were all good friends and gleefully sang dirty limericks to prove it.

“Hey buddy!”

“Hey pal!”

“See ya!”

“See ya!”

They bawled out final farewells, bestrode their saddles, turned their horses, and galloped pell-mell over the vast horizon of the plains.

II

The morning sun poured down on freshly ploughed red earth, where new crops were sprouting, and poured down on the twisted oaks and wild thickets in whose shade steaming bulls lay stretched out. Lake Ticomaipú, surrounded by Indian huts, mirrored the flaming sheaves. The boss gallops along the bank of a creek on a lively dapple gray, behind him his overseer drives his nag furiously on. Clanging bells and shooting rockets brighten the torrid morning. Canoes full of Indians festooned with bunting, branches, and garlands of flowers trail up and down the waterways. Other light boats almost turn over from all the merrymaking. In the lead boat, under a canopy, a troupe of cimarrons—with cardboard masks, spears, and bucklers—dance jubilantly. A drum and a cornet play as they posture and pirouette. The homestead looms in the distance. The green foliage of shady orange groves shimmers. Tiles, terraces, and roofs sparkle. Eager to reach the farm, the horse breaks into a fresh gallop. The overseer slides the gate open, stands in his stirrups, and looks around: under an arch the colonel, in his hammock, strums a guitar and encourages some kids to dance; two coppery

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