Chota

The first clue was a rope.

It hung on a wooden fence at the edge of Chota, frayed, dirty, and cut far too neatly.

Perusina stopped. "It's not broken."

Perusino knelt beside her. "Maybe the calf had very strong teeth."

Franz sniffed the dust. "Or someone had a knife. All I'm saying is: if I steal something, I at least leave a prettier trail."

"You don't steal anything," Perusina said.

"I call it provisions testing."

Behind them, the festival grounds were being prepared. Chota was noisy that day: music rehearsals, voices, market stalls, horse hooves, mototaxis, people with hats and ponchos. The festival for San Juan Bautista was approaching. Everywhere, things were being carried, pushed, shouted.

Only in Don Eusebio's yard was it quiet.

Too quiet.

His young calf was gone.

"Of all days," he muttered. "When the Rondas come for the night watch, everyone will say we weren't paying attention."

Perusina looked up. "The Rondas?"

Don Eusebio nodded. "Here in Chota, many know the Rondas Campesinas. People watch out for their community together. Not alone. Together."

Franz lifted his head. "Watching out together sounds good. Eating together sounds better."

Then they heard it.

A brief clatter from the alley.

Perusino jumped up. "There!"

A shadow darted past a stack of festival crates. Not a monster. No magic. Just someone who didn't want to be seen.

Perusino ran off.

"Of course," Perusina sighed. "He runs."

She ran after him.

The trail led right into the market. A sack of potatoes burst open as the unknown person bumped into it. Potatoes rolled across the street. Perusino jumped over three, stepped on the fourth, and flailed his arms.

"I've got everything under control!"

He had nothing under control.

He slid into a stall with straw hats, caught himself on a wooden pole, and spun once around himself. Franz shot past him, lower to the ground, his nose like a small compass.

"Left! No, right! No, oh, cheese!"

"That's not cheese," Perusina called. "That's soap!"

Franz braked too late and slid through a basket of soap bars. After that, he smelled like a very clean disaster.

The unknown person disappeared behind a house wall.

When Perusina turned the corner, no one was there anymore. Only a piece of fabric hung on a nail. Dark brown. From a poncho.

And next to it: an imprint in the mud.

Not a hoof.

Not a shoe.

A tire.

"Mototaxi," Perusina said.

Perusino wiped dust from his face. "Then we'll take one too."

Three minutes later, they were in a yellow mototaxi rattling down the road. Franz stood in front on Perusino's knees, sniffing the wind.

"I smell calf. Dust. Fear. And someone ate empanadas."

"Focus," Perusina said.

"Empanadas can be clues."

The driver took them out towards Cuyumalca. The houses grew fewer. The mountains drew closer. Evening crept over the fields. Where paths crossed, men and women stood together. No uniforms. No grand speeches. Hats, ponchos, lanterns, watchful eyes.

A night watch.

A woman with a gray braid raised her hand. "You're looking for the calf?"

Perusina nodded. "And someone who's laying false trails."

The woman pointed to the path. "An hour ago, a mototaxi drove up there. Without lights."

"Without lights?" Perusino looked at the sky. "That's almost as clever as walking barefoot through cacti."

Franz sniffed. "The calf was here. But it didn't go alone."

They followed the path uphill. It grew darker. Crickets chirped. Somewhere, tin clattered. Then they heard a faint moo.

Perusino's eyes widened. "The calf!"

"Wait," Perusina whispered.

Too late.

Perusino stormed off and stepped on a taut string. A tin can clattered. Then another. Then twenty. The whole slope made a racket.

A man jumped out from behind a rock and tried to run away.

Franz stood in his way.

The man didn't stop because of Franz.

He stopped because Franz was completely wet and soapy, gleaming in the moonlight, and looked like an indignant fox from a laundry room.

"What is that?" the man stammered.

"Justice with ears," Franz said.

Perusina ran to the enclosure. Inside was the calf. Unharmed, but nervous. Next to it lay several things: a knife, a piece of poncho, an old tire, and a sign on which someone had poorly written: The Ronda was to blame.

Perusina grew quiet.

"He didn't just want to steal the calf," she said. "He wanted everyone to distrust the Rondas."

The woman with the gray braid came up the slope with several people. No one shouted. No one struck. They just stood so the man couldn't get away.

"Why?" she asked.

The man looked at the ground. "I wanted no one to listen to you during the festival anymore. Then I could have taken goods from the market more easily at night."

Perusino clenched his hands. "That's bad even for a bad plan."

Don Eusebio arrived shortly after with a lantern. When he saw the calf, he exhaled as if he had been holding his breath all day.

The calf nudged Franz.

Franz fell backward into the dust.

"I saved it," he said from the ground. "It shows gratitude very physically."

The night watch led the man back to Chota. Not secretly. Not wildly. But together, calmly, attentively. Everyone saw what had happened. Everyone heard what Perusina explained: the cut rope, the false trails, the tire print, the sign.

The next morning, the festival began.

Music filled the streets. Hats bobbed. Horse hooves clattered on the pavement. Don Eusebio's calf stood in the yard again, chewing as if nothing special had happened.

Perusino got an empanada.

Franz got one too.

Perusina received a small piece of rope from the woman with the gray braid.

"As a reminder," the woman said. "Watching out doesn't mean causing fear. Watching out means: seeing together what one person alone overlooks."

Perusina put the rope in her pocket.

Franz chewed contentedly. "I learned something too."

"What?" Perusino asked.

"Soap is not cheese."

And somewhere in Chota, the next drum began.