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46 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

“That hotel feller was rude to my friend here,” I said,

“Just because he is Mexican and I can tell you, Mr. Andry, there’s not a better young man in

the country than this boy”.

I introduced Gilberto to the Sheriff.

“Tanto Gusto.” The sheriff said, “Lo siento por el hombre,” Joe said, meaning,

“Nice to meet you, I’m sorry for the man’s actions.”

“You speak that Spanish pretty handy,” I told him.

“Well,” he said, “I ought to. My mother is full blood Mexican and we learned it as babies.”

He said there would be no trouble over the deal and if the feller at the hotel gave us any more

guff, to just let him handle it. He made me promise to try to control my temper.

The weather got worse and we stayed there two days and nights. I began to wonder how

things were going at home but wasn’t really worried with Juan there to watch after things.

Gilberto spent a lot of his time picking my brain trying to learn English. I noticed he would try

to speak it when it was just him and me but around other folks he stuck to his Spanish.

I figured he might be a little bashful and embarrassed to try in front of anyone else. I couldn’t

even get him to try it in front of the Sheriff. We sent word to his brother, Antonio, that we were

in town and if he couldn’t make it into town, we would try to go to the ranch where he worked

and visit him. I taught some phrases to Gilberto along with words. I wanted him to get a good

handle on the English language.

“No querro hablar con los otros en Ingles, Señor,” he told me. Meaning, he didn’t want to

talk to the others in English and that sat okay with me at this point. I finally got him saying,

“How ya doin’?” In English, with just a little Texas twang and made him understand what it

meant.

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