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Authors: Theodore Taylor
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protested.
Giron shrugged and asked for the price.
"Eleven dollars and sixty cents," said the woman.
Giron looked down at Jose. "It's very expensive to be a painter," he said.
"Put them back," Jose said. It was too expensive.
Giron laughed. "Oh, what the hell." He paid the woman, and they went out again, Jose clutching the large bag, thanking Giron profusely.
On the street, Jose said, "I promise you that someday I'll be as famous as Orozco."
"You shoot high enough," Giron said, chuckling.
Finally, at about four o'clock, after they'd had lunch and seen a film, Giron said, "Now, I'll treat myself."
Jose stood outside a bar with dice on its windows and watched as the teacher went in and had two straight drinks. They went down bang, bang. He came out rubbing his belly and grinning.
They caught the 4:35 Greyhound to San Ramon. There had never been such a good day, Jose thought.
Los Estados Unidos
was everything he'd dreamed of.
12
N OT LONG AFTER they'd returned to Haines Main, the man from
next
door, Cubria, the checker player, knocked on the cabin and asked Giron if he'd like to go into Paso Robles; have a few beers, maybe look at the girls.
"You mind?" Giron asked.
Jose was sitting on the bed, looking at the tubes of paint, feeling the bristles of the brushes, and running his fingers over the canvasses. "No. I'll take Sanchez for a walk. I'll be all right."
Giron left just before dark. Jose took the dog behind the rows of cabins and out into the fields. He felt sorry for him. The one bad thing about having Sanchez along was penning him up each day. In Colnett, he'd roamed at will; sometimes trotting all the way to the village to pry into the garbage can by the Garcia store.
Sanchez snooped over the fields, running and stop
ping; sniffing, then running on; looking back now and then to make certain Jose was following.
It was just after nine when Jose and Sanchez got back to Haines Main. The lights were on in the barracks and some of the cabins, but there weren't many men around.
As they passed by the barracks, Jose heard a voice he knew he had heard before.
A figure moved out of the shadow of the barracks, blocking his way. It was the man from the shower. A slice of light from the barracks window illuminated his face. He was grinning and he smelled of wine. He was not wearing his false teeth.
"I think you're gonna be friendly to me, boy. That black man's gone to another farm, and your roomie's out, too. Now, you shouldn't of thrown that soap in my face. I was jus' tryin' to be nice."
Jose did not understand the words, but he was frightened at the soft tone. "No,
señor,
" he said.
"Let's jus' you and I sit down here, an' talk a while."
"
Por favor, señor.
" Jose hoped someone would come out of the barracks. He could hear voices and a radio playing in there.
"Take it easy, boy," the man said, grabbing for his wrist.
Jose tugged back, repeating, "
Por favor, señor.
"
There was a snarl by his ear, and Sanchez's wide jaws clamped on the man's arm. Jose fell back. He rolled over and saw Sanchez tearing at the arm. The
americano
was screaming.
On his feet, Jose grabbed the dog by his ears and wrenched him back. Sanchez was still snarling. His teeth were bared, and there was blood on them.
The
americano
was wallowing back and forth on the ground, clutching his arm, yelling. Men poured out of the barracks.
Jose stood holding Sanchez, dazed and shaken.
Kneeling down, one of the
pochos
said in Spanish, "We better get him to a hospital." He turned to Jose. "That dog do this?"
"It was an accident,
señor.
"
An
americano
worker said, "Somebody get Eddie. Tell him to bring a gun."
Jose understood "Eddie" and "gun," and said, "No,
señor. Por favor.
" He began backing up.
The
americano
said, "I'll get the dog."
As he advanced, Sanchez snarled again, showing his teeth, straining to get loose.
The
pocho
yelled, "Watch him. He's a killer."
Jose wheeled and began running toward Cabin 6, looking back
Giron shrugged and asked for the price.
"Eleven dollars and sixty cents," said the woman.
Giron looked down at Jose. "It's very expensive to be a painter," he said.
"Put them back," Jose said. It was too expensive.
Giron laughed. "Oh, what the hell." He paid the woman, and they went out again, Jose clutching the large bag, thanking Giron profusely.
On the street, Jose said, "I promise you that someday I'll be as famous as Orozco."
"You shoot high enough," Giron said, chuckling.
Finally, at about four o'clock, after they'd had lunch and seen a film, Giron said, "Now, I'll treat myself."
Jose stood outside a bar with dice on its windows and watched as the teacher went in and had two straight drinks. They went down bang, bang. He came out rubbing his belly and grinning.
They caught the 4:35 Greyhound to San Ramon. There had never been such a good day, Jose thought.
Los Estados Unidos
was everything he'd dreamed of.
12
N OT LONG AFTER they'd returned to Haines Main, the man from
next
door, Cubria, the checker player, knocked on the cabin and asked Giron if he'd like to go into Paso Robles; have a few beers, maybe look at the girls.
"You mind?" Giron asked.
Jose was sitting on the bed, looking at the tubes of paint, feeling the bristles of the brushes, and running his fingers over the canvasses. "No. I'll take Sanchez for a walk. I'll be all right."
Giron left just before dark. Jose took the dog behind the rows of cabins and out into the fields. He felt sorry for him. The one bad thing about having Sanchez along was penning him up each day. In Colnett, he'd roamed at will; sometimes trotting all the way to the village to pry into the garbage can by the Garcia store.
Sanchez snooped over the fields, running and stop
ping; sniffing, then running on; looking back now and then to make certain Jose was following.
It was just after nine when Jose and Sanchez got back to Haines Main. The lights were on in the barracks and some of the cabins, but there weren't many men around.
As they passed by the barracks, Jose heard a voice he knew he had heard before.
A figure moved out of the shadow of the barracks, blocking his way. It was the man from the shower. A slice of light from the barracks window illuminated his face. He was grinning and he smelled of wine. He was not wearing his false teeth.
"I think you're gonna be friendly to me, boy. That black man's gone to another farm, and your roomie's out, too. Now, you shouldn't of thrown that soap in my face. I was jus' tryin' to be nice."
Jose did not understand the words, but he was frightened at the soft tone. "No,
señor,
" he said.
"Let's jus' you and I sit down here, an' talk a while."
"
Por favor, señor.
" Jose hoped someone would come out of the barracks. He could hear voices and a radio playing in there.
"Take it easy, boy," the man said, grabbing for his wrist.
Jose tugged back, repeating, "
Por favor, señor.
"
There was a snarl by his ear, and Sanchez's wide jaws clamped on the man's arm. Jose fell back. He rolled over and saw Sanchez tearing at the arm. The
americano
was screaming.
On his feet, Jose grabbed the dog by his ears and wrenched him back. Sanchez was still snarling. His teeth were bared, and there was blood on them.
The
americano
was wallowing back and forth on the ground, clutching his arm, yelling. Men poured out of the barracks.
Jose stood holding Sanchez, dazed and shaken.
Kneeling down, one of the
pochos
said in Spanish, "We better get him to a hospital." He turned to Jose. "That dog do this?"
"It was an accident,
señor.
"
An
americano
worker said, "Somebody get Eddie. Tell him to bring a gun."
Jose understood "Eddie" and "gun," and said, "No,
señor. Por favor.
" He began backing up.
The
americano
said, "I'll get the dog."
As he advanced, Sanchez snarled again, showing his teeth, straining to get loose.
The
pocho
yelled, "Watch him. He's a killer."
Jose wheeled and began running toward Cabin 6, looking back
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