San Felipe was burning. Black smoke rose upward into the April sky. On the first of the month the market should have been crowded with townspeople and farmers in for supplies or the plain socializing aspect of a trip into town. Mamacitas would be keeping a watch over their ripe and willing daughters while the young men from town and the vaqueros from the ranches vied with one another hoping to catch the attention of the prettiest señorita. On another day, haciendados and hardscrabble farmers might have met to exchange news about crops; wives would have gathered for quilting and gossip. The first week of April had always brought a spring fandango. The hotels should have been crowded with guests, folks gathered for a town meeting. Not this year and, perhaps, never again. “I built that shop with my own two hands,” said Jesus Zavala, sitting astride his horse on a wooded knoll overlooking the town. Flames devoured- the wooden shingle roof of the livery stable, feasted on the blacksmith shop, and gorged themselves on the interior of his hacienda.
