“And I am sorry to go. I have come to believe that the true fight for Mexico will be here, my lieutenant.” Díaz always referred to Zaragosa as lieutenant, though Zaragosa had long since retired from the military and settled down to the life of a farmer on land which had belonged to his father-in-law. “We will be leaving you to the mercy of the Americans.”

“And that still troubles you?”

“Very much. You have ridden among the colonies. You have seen them just as I have. What do you see of Mexico in any of them? They have their own government, and it is a government modeled after that of the United States. They have begun to build schools, but they do not teach from Mexican books. They do not even teach our language.”

“There are Mexican settlements. Bexar remains almost entirely Mexican. So does La Bahía.”

“Islands in an American ocean. When the tide rises, it will wash over them, and nothing Mexican will be left. It is illegal now for more Americans to come into Texas, yet more come every day. The law is like an old watchdog that has no teeth. With the few troops we have, trying to stop them is like trying to stop the geese from going south in the winter.”

Díaz observed Zaragosa’s son Manuel in a corral, riding a half-broken colt around and around. “If we do not stop them, what will become of your son, and those who come after him? He will be living in an American land, not a Mexican one. If they let him stay here at all.”

Zaragosa placed a hand on Díaz’s shoulder and nodded toward his front door. “Come on into the house. Let us drink to your safe journey.”

Inside, Zaragosa called to his wife Elvira. She brought a bottle of wine made from Zaragosa’s own vines. Díaz tried not to stare at her, but he could not help himself, for he had always considered her a rare beauty, with olive skin, raven-black hair, and dark eyes that would melt a man into his boots. Would that he had such a woman to come home to at night, to share his supper and his bed. It pained him to think of her someday losing this good home to some grasping American, of becoming a penniless refugee thrown out upon the road. That, he feared, was the fate of all Mexicans in Texas, unless the steady invasion could be stopped and the Americans pushed back beyond their own border.

Zaragosa poured three glasses of wine, passing one to Elvira and one to Díaz. He said, “You do not see the Americans as I have seen them. You have never made friends among them.”

“I tried, as you will remember. My family tried. All they did was enslave us and kill my sister.”

“Are there not Mexicans who would do the same? You judge the many by the few.”

“I can only judge by what I have seen, and I have seen that side of their nature. You have been spared that view, my lieutenant, or you would not be so complacent.”