The Queen of Honduras Came to Texas to Buy Bulls, and Fell for the Shortest Cowboy in the Arena novel · Chapter 21 of 24

Chapter 21: My Grandmother's House

"Lieutenant," I said.

The soldiers stopped halfway to the gate.

"How old are you?"

He blinked. "Twenty-four, Majesty."

"Where is your family from?"

"Catacamas, Majesty. Up the valley."

"Did they keep cattle?"

His jaw moved.

"My father had sixty head," he said. "He has none now."

I walked across the dirt until I was standing in front of him.

I'm a head taller than most men in Olancho. He had to tip his cap back to look at me.

"The constitution of this country makes the Crown commander of its armed forces," I said. "Not the Ministry. Not a bank. Me. Is that what you were taught?"

"Yes, Majesty."

"Then here is an order from your commander. Let that man go."

The lieutenant looked past me at Andrés on the steps.

Andrés said, "Lieutenant, you have a signed order."

Then something moved along the rail.

The ranchers were climbing down into the arena.

They came over the rail in their white straw hats, one and then ten and then fifty, and walked out into the dirt.

They didn't touch anyone.

They just went and stood in front of the gate.

The old vaquero stood in the middle of them with his hat on, his arms folded, as small and bent as a fence post.

Fifty ranchers between the soldiers and the road.

The lieutenant looked at them for a long moment.

He turned back to me and saluted.

"Release him," he said.

The soldiers let go of Clyde's arms.

Then the stands began to cheer, and they didn't stop.

Andrés came down off the stage steps. He walked straight past me without a word, out the side gate to his car.

Elena followed him with her folder pressed to her chest.

It took the rest of the afternoon to unload the forty bulls.

The ranchers drew lots for them from the old vaquero's hat.

Clyde stood at the trailer ramp with the halter ropes until the last one was gone.

Then he handed Domino's rope to the old vaquero.

"He likes his ears scratched," Clyde said.

I translated.

The old man laughed for the first time all day.

At dusk, the old vaquero drove us out to my grandmother's house.

It sat on a low rise above the dry river. White walls, a deep porch, a tile roof gone green with age.

Nobody had lived in it for six years.

He'd kept it swept anyway.

He lit the lamps and left us there.

Clyde walked through the front room slowly with his hat in his hands.

There were saddles on a rack by the door. A rosary on a nail. A long wooden table worn pale in the middle.

On the wall above it hung a photograph in a black frame.

My grandparents on their wedding day, in front of this same porch.

My grandmother in white lace, tall and broad and laughing, her hand on her husband's shoulder.

My grandfather beside her in a vaquero's short jacket, holding his hat.

The top of his head came to her chin.

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