Senor Jose Juan Pablo Garcia, having just exceeded ninety years, with failing eyesight, chronic deafness, only four teeth remaining, and a serious hitch in his get along had not yet begun to think of himself as old. Each day, he sat on a cider barrel beneath a sour apple tree next to the Village of Santa Basura’s only water well, which had suddenly run almost totally dry two weeks before. Rafael Salcedo Ovilla, having arrived only three days before, sat with him, each eking out barely enough water to survive until the next day.

Suddenly Rafael Salcedo Ovilla saw nine mounted, heavily armed men galloping up. He warned Jose Juan Pablo Garcia, under God’s eye, to run. “Dio mio, Jose,  gringos vienen aqui! Corres, ahora!”

Run Jose would have, but, alas, a man of ninety years with any semblance of a hitch in his get along cannot run, no matter the incentive. Rafael fled into the deserted village, now vacant for need of water. Jose Juan Pablo Garcia, a man of limited importance and infinite patience, with a hitch in his get along, waited.

“Texas Rangers, Senor,” the leader gruffed in barely decipherable Spanish. Then demanding the whereabouts of a man Jose knew well. He barked, “Anciano! Donde es Rafael Salcedo Ovilla!”

Jose Juan Pablo Garcia, normally a truthful man of no importance, didn’t care for the Gringo’s manner. He had no intention of betraying his companion no matter the importance of the pursuer or how many helpers or guns he brought along. Jose replied that he didn’t know the man. “Quien Sabe Senor Policia”.

He then realized no Ranger spoke adequate Spanish.

“A criminal far worse than Pancho Villa and Emilio Zapata combined – an animal who eats live chickens and often relieves himself in the middle of busy streets.One bad hombre,” growled the leader in English as he led his men away to the South.

Jose resumed siting under the meager shade of the sour apple tree, sipping at the small cup of water he’d managed from the dying well. The day was warm, but a gentle southern breeze offered limited relief.

The following day, from the vacant houses, Rafael Salcedo Ovilla, soaked in sweat, covered with brown trail dust, and near death from thirst, staggered across the dusty village square waving a very large pistol. He demanded all the water, or he would kill Jose Juan Pablo Garcia. “Anciano, dame lo water o tu mueres.”

Jose handed over his nearly empty cup. “The well is dry. No mas aqua, senor.”

Rafael Salcedo Ovilla gulped the smattering of water, then snarled in Spanish, “I’m Rafael Salcedo Ovilla — mean as a polecat, smart as the Almighty, and in no mood for talk.” He held up a bulging valise. “Here is Two hundred thousand dollars American. Had to rob a train and kill two men to get it. Now show me a place to hide my treasure, or I’ll have to blow off your useless, stupid old head.”

“As you know, senor, the well is nearly totally dry. If you lowered your trove on the rope, perhaps the Rangers would not think to look in a dry well.”

So, for the next two days, Jose Juan Pablo Garcia sat with Rafael Salcedo Ovilla beneath the sour apple tree, guarding the valise of treasure hanging on a rope next to them. The weather turned for the worse, first inflicting a violent, massive thunderstorm, converting the terrain to a muddy quagmire. Then the temperature rose sharply, making existence optional. The rain, however, had allowed Jose to capture a full bucket of water. When Jose and Rafael finally dared venture back to the sour apple tree from the shelter of the porch of Madame Lometa’s former house of ill fame, the Rangers had been watching.

The nine Gringos, each mounted on a fine, large horse, charged down the empty former Main Street of the village of Santa Basura. “Policia Americano!” blurted Rafael Salcedo Ovilla as he ran for cover of the abandoned village homes. Jose Juan Pablo Garcia, incapable of running anything more than his mouth, remained on the cider barrel.

“Agua, senor Anciano.” Demanded the Ranger boss, his white Stetson now brown with dust.

Jose handed up his precious bucket of rainwater, which the nine rangers downed in seconds.

“We want Rafael Salcedo Ovilla. Now where is he?”

Jose, not a man of violence of any sort, aware that the Gringos probably had more than one rope, and mortally terrified of them, said once more that he didn’t know. “Quien Sabe, El Hefe.”

The Gringos fanned out, conducting a shanty-to-shanty search. By and by, one of the Gringos dragged Rafael Salcedo Ovilla down Main Street in the mud at the end of a rope.

“Ask him where he stashed the cash,” demanded the Gringo leader.

Jose studied Rafael closely, then asked him where he was from. “Donde vive, Senor?”

“Laredo,” replied Rafael Salcedo Ovilla readily.

The Ranger Captain swallowed the bait, “We ride to Laredo for nothing, and we’ll hang him sure as Sunday. Ask him if he’d like to be hanged, Anciano.”

“Jose Juan Pablo Garcia again studied Rafael’s terrified face and asked in Spanish if he’d like to be set free with the money and a pardon. “El dice eres un buen hombre.”

“Si, si.” Rafael cried out.

The gruff Rangers circled Jose and Rafael, puzzled. “Whut the hell is he saying?” asked the leader.

Jose Juan Pablo Garcia eyed the nearby rope, tethered to a lifetime of leisure, luxury – someplace with plenty of water. He calculated the worth of Rafael Salcedo Ovilla and his threat of death if not given all the water. A decent man, Jose Juan Pablo Garcia had always tried to do the right thing. Allowed loose on the public, Rafael Garcia Ovilla would undoubtedly continue his miscreant ways.

“Captain, he says he’ll never tell you where the money is because the cowardly Rangers don’t have the cajónes to hang him.”