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From where I’m sitting outside Sotero’s cantina I can easily see the third horse wheeling around and heading back, and then Chico dismounting, unbuckling his gunbelt and rolling up his sleeves.
The other two linger for a long moment to look towards the village and our little cemetery. Then they turn and ride away, side by side. Together, just like the day they came across each other, and then met our three men. Hilario, Miguel and Tomás have described that first encounter so many times that I almost feel I was there too.
Since then, these men have lost four comrades and gained nothing. We in Ixcatlán have lost much, but gained much, and learned much. When I lie on my deathbed, I will have no regrets, and some hope for the future our village has won for itself.
That day is approaching fast. I wheeze with almost every step I take, my heart is either too fast or too slow, and chest pains are frequent visitors. I am like a tree whose leaves have fallen and whose roots are withering. The two men who are riding away – if I squint, I can still see two dots moving towards the hills – are mature, productive trees whose leaves have not yet started to turn yellow. I saw the way they worked together while they were here, exchanging a minimum of words and understanding each other with just a look or a gesture. Maybe they did gain something from their stay here, possibly a friendship and some shared future.
The two dots have disappeared. Vayan con Dios, I silently wish them once more before I push myself up, slowly walk to the field where nearly all our men are sowing, and with a small smile ask them if they have sufficient fertilizer.