Free The Son by Philipp Meyer Page A

hospice you could never leave. She would sleep with every nice-looking man she met. Which of course meant she would be sent to hell.
    Do not let me die, she thought. She opened her eyes. She was still on the floor of her living room, lying on the burgundy rug. The fire was still burning. Was the light growing? She couldn’t tell. She willed her head to move, then her legs, but there was nothing.

Chapter Six
    Diaries of Peter McCullough
    A UGUST 12, 1915
    The newspapers are already running their version, straight from the mouth of the Colonel. The following will stand as the only true record:
    Yesterday our segundo Ramirez was riding in one of the west pastures when he saw men driving whiteface cattle toward the river. As the Garcias still run mostly unimproved stock, it was obvious to whom the cattle belonged.
    It was just after sundown when we caught them at the water. Most of the stock had already been crossed and the range was extreme, nearly three hundred yards, but everyone—Glenn, Charles, myself, the Colonel, Ramirez, our caporal Rafael Garza, and a handful of our other vaqueros—began shooting anyway, hoping to scare the thieves into abandoning the herd. Unfortunately they were old hands and instead of leaving the cattle, a few of them dismounted to shoot back while the others continued to drive the beefs into the brasada on the Mexican side. Glenn was hit in the shoulder, a Hail Mary shot from across the water.
    Back at the house two Rangers were waiting along with Dr. Pilkington, whom Sally had called when she heard the shooting. The bullet had missed the artery but Glenn would need surgery and Pilkington thought it best to take him to the hospital in San Antonio. While he and Sally patched up Glenn, I spoke to the Ranger sergeant, a hard-faced little blond boy who looks like he escaped from a penitentiary. He is perhaps twenty but the other Ranger is conspicuously afraid of him. Beware the small man in Texas; he must be ten times meaner to survive in this land of giants.
    A gang of Mexicans does not just shoot a white teenager without retaliation and I had wanted as many lawmen around as possible, but one look and I knew these Rangers were not going to help things. Still it was better than Niles Gilbert and his friends from the Law and Order League.
    “How many more of you are coming?” I asked the sergeant.
    “None. You are lucky we are even here. We are supposed to be in Hidalgo County.” He went to spit on the rug but then stopped himself.
    Of course the King Ranch has an entire company permanently stationed, but it was not worth mentioning.
    We loaded Glenn into the back of Pilkington’s car. Sally climbed in after him. Glenn looked pitiful and I wanted to ride with him but I knew I was the only voice of reason within twenty miles; if I left I did not want to imagine the scene I might return to.
    Sally leaned out of the window and whispered: “You need to go kill every one of those bastards.”
    I did not say anything. Around here, talk like that turns quickly to action.
    “You’re the Colonel’s son, Pete. Tonight you need to act like it.”
    “I think it was José and Chico,” Glenn called out. “The way they sat their horses.”
    “It was pretty dark, buddy. And we were all pretty worked up.”
    “Well, I’m sure of it, Daddy.”
    Another kind of man would not be doubting his own son as he lay pale in the back of a car. But of course it was not him I was doubting at all; it was my father.
    “All right,” I told him. “You’re a brave man.”
    They drove off. I doubted that Glenn really thought that he’d seen José and Chico until he’d heard the Colonel say it. My father can put ideas into other men’s heads without them realizing.
     
    T HE MOOD WAS to ride on the Garcias immediately, before they had time to barricade their casa mayor. All the vaqueros had gathered and were waiting outside, smoking cigarettes or chewing tobacco, ready to spill blood for their patrón.
    A dozen or