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112 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 2017
Each man goes to his post under the watchful eye of the slaughterhouse foreman, Bronco Gil. Tall, with straight hair and tanned skin, and exceptionally strong, he always wears braces and leather boots, even in the heat. He is a self-proclaimed hunter. When a cow breaks free and escapes, he’s able to capture it quickly. When a jaguar or wild boar threatens the cattle’s safety, he’ll sit for days and nights on end in the woods, waiting to ambush it. If a disagreement between the employees oversteps the limits of peaceful coexistence, he knows how to deal with it. Bronco Gil is a mediator, a hunter, a butcher and one of the vilest individuals Edgar Wilson has ever met.
Despite his ability to handle a shotgun, he prefers a bow and arrow. He is the son of an Indigenous woman and a white rancher. Until the age of twelve, he lived with a tribe where outsiders were not allowed, and cut off from the world, he lived immersed in a culture with little fondness for affection. He accidentally lost one of his testicles in an initiation ritual into adulthood. This made him quieter but more aggressive. Some time later, his father decided to go fetch him and take him to live on the ranch, as he needed a helper. In exchange for some tins of potted meat and lard, Bronco Gil was whisked away to a region far removed from the tribe. His father, by then an old man and a widower, had lost his three other sons, who’d spent weeks hunting down two jaguars that had been circling the ranch’s cattle. Overnight, the old man found himself alone and with no heirs, so he decided to rescue Bronco Gil and try to civilise him before it was too late. That’s the way the old man thought. But instead civilisation barbarised him, and what little affection he’d known became like the dust on the ground he walked upon. Civilised, wearing boots and braces, and combing his hair back with Mutamba and Juá hair tonic, he was taught to hunt for pleasure and to never turn his back on anyone. They lived together, father and son, for ten years, until the old man died of a heart attack while riding among the cornfields.
On his own, Bronco Gil lost the farm, the horses and two pickup trucks at card tables. The rest of what he had was spent on hookers and booze. Late one night, walking home drunk, propped up by two women, they were run over and left for dead. The deserted stretch of road prevented help from arriving for eight hours. The women didn’t make it; he was rescued in time. But his left eye didn’t stand a chance. A vulture ate it while his right eye watched. In its place was now one made of glass; brown, like the real one, but that pops loose from its socket now and again.