Inheritance

The old man had returned with his newer, younger family in tow. He’d gifted his house to his eldest not long after her wedding. Now, twenty years later, he let her know that she and hers had thirty days to either pay up or get out.

Her eldest were married or dead. The ones remaining were a teenage beauty queen, a sharp-tongued, foppish young man who was the laughingstock of the town, a twelve-year-old boy, an eight-year-old boy, and a two-year-old, the baby she’d had at forty-eight. Her husband spent most of his time building railroads in Kansas and Missouri and Iowa. He visited roughly once a year.

It was the twelve-year-old—quiet, reserved, with eyes that belonged to a man who’d already been through several wars—who took action. He borrowed a gun from someone and headed out along the cobblestoned streets to the bar, asking whether anyone had seen the old man. The men there didn’t laugh. The boy had a quiet dignity that matched the cold fury in his voice and belied the occasional shiver that overtook him. Besides, twelve was practically a man, there and then.

One of them, ad-libbing, said he’d seen the old man heading toward the potrero just a short time earlier. The boy nodded, his gracias curt but polite.

A brother-in-law was dispatched to let the old man know about the boy.

- Don Sebastián, one of your grandsons is looking for you. He’s got a gun.

The old man nodded, patting his brother-in-law on the shoulder, and left at an unhurried pace. He approached the potrero where his sad little progeny stood, the gun far too big for his hand. Eyes too big for his face. Elbows pointy. Skinny, like an old horse.

The boy raised the gun, his hand shaking.

- Hola, nieto, the old man said.

- Don’t call me that, I’m not your grandson. You’re not my grandfather.

- ¿Ah, no? Well, you tell me, then: who am I? Where did your name come from, Sebastián?

- Cállese, hijo de la chingada, the boy spat, his eyes beginning to fill with tears.

- You’re not going to kill me, the old man said, and a sense of peace came over him. Tears spilled over onto the boy’s face and the old man knew he had a few seconds in his favor.

- Mira. Escúchame, he said gently.

Slowly, he moved closer to the boy, who was sobbing now.

- Shhh. Don’t cry, son. Listen.

And it was so easy. He smacked the gun out of the boy’s hands, picked it up — knowing the move would hurt his arthritic bones for a couple of days — and trained it on the younger Sebastián.

- A la chingada, mocoso. Go. Now.

The boy stared up at him, face a mask of horror and snot. And then he turned and lurched back toward town, shoulders shaking. The old man stood, pointing the gun at his grandson’s back until he was just a blur on the horizon. When the boy disappeared, Don Sebastián spat into the dust. Caballo que no jala de punta, a la yunta, he thought, and headed home.