Free The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories by Carlos Velázquez Page A

know Cowboy Bible boots: If they’re not custom-made, they’ll crack. They only do what they’re made to do. They don’t get tempted by other feet, even the sun’s.
5
    —My love.
    —Yes, Paulino.
    —I’m going on a trip.
    —So soon? Oh, Paulino. Don’t drive yourself mad with this.
    —My love, my affinity for those boots cannot be ignored.
    —Did you have lunch already?
    —No.
    —I’ll make you some of your favorite tacos for the road.
    —I don’t have time for that. My horses and men are waiting to devote themselves to the task.
    —Oh, Paulino. You’ve lost it. It’s bad not to have even one bean dancing in those two kilometers of intestine when you go shopping.
    —Oh my love, those are women’s concerns. I’m just going out for a pair of boots.
    —Get a grip, Paulino. There are risks. They’ve said cold front number eight is headed this way. You have to bear that in mind.
    —Don’t make assumptions, my love. People who are supposed to be so smart about the weather always make false prophecies. They’re like those boastful bettors. They always pick the wrong cock.
    —Let’s hope so. Let’s hope you don’t catch a chill and get sick from all that cold.
    —Don’t even say it, my love. I won’t lose it. I’ll present myself completely whole and uninjured. Just remember that with a kilo of tequila, a double poncho, and sarape, you can scare away any chill.
6
    —I’m not lying Don Paulino. You’ve lost it. I’ve already explained that according to everything the foreigner said, El Infierno shoe store should be right here.
    —You sure?
    —Absolutely. This is where the store should be.
    —We have to investigate.
    —We’ve already looked and looked all over the place. It’s not there.
    —Are you sure those are the right coordinates?
    —Yes, boss. Look: To be sure, there’s the crossroad, the railroad tracks, and the little joint where they sell cured meat. El Infierno should be right across there.
    —And what did the bartender say?
    —That there’s no latitude for what we’re looking for. That he’s already told the herd. That a wasteland isn’t the place for a shoe store. That El Infierno was never here. Not even temporarily.
    —Maybe we’re too scattered? Maybe it’s over the hill?
    —No, Don Paulino. We’re in the right place. There’s the black guy. Remember what the foreigner said. At the crossroad, where you see the black guy playing guitar on a stick, that’s where El Infierno should be.
7
    —You’ve lost it, Paulino. From all that trotting. I saw you from a distance and knew it was you.
    —We never found the shoe store, my love.
    —And how did you expect to find it if you didn’t take anything with you? You left without a scapular, without lunch or a map.
    —We had a compass. But it broke at the crossroad. It couldn’t be coaxed to signal south at south or north at north.
    —Oh Paulino, I’ve told you, to orient yourself use the sun’s rays, the position of the stars, or the wind’s caress on a finger swathed in spit.
8
    —I’ve done everything in this life: collected horses, boots, and fine roosters. But I’ve never been a quitter.
    —Enough, Paulino. Forget about the boots.
    —No, my love. I can’t give up.
    —Oh Paulino. Come on. You’ve lost it. What about when you promised to compose a corrido for the rustler they ambushed in Buenos Aires, Coahuila?
    —I was using my head. Anyway, I’m in a better place to inspire songs than to come up with one.
    —Stop, Paulino. They’ve discontinued Cowboy Bible boots. They took them off the market because you were the only one buying them.
    —I’ll disappear before that happens, my love.
    —Believe me.
    —No. I’ve decided. I have to sell my soul to the devil.
    —You, you’re crazy.
    —I’m gonna sell my soul to the devil. I’m gonna sell it like they sell trucks: whole or in parts.
    —Are you serious, Paulino?
    —Yes, my love.
    —And you believe that?
    —Believe what?
    —That Satan is