The next day, Catalina left the children playing near the grotto, shaded under a withered tree, and returned to the abandoned house with a rusty pickaxe she had found and a determination she didn’t know she possessed.
She descended to the cellar, moved the crates, and began hammering at the adobe wall. The brittle wall crumbled with each blow. Soon she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze through. Peering cautiously, torch in hand, she saw the tunnel: narrow, dark, walls of packed earth supported by worm-eaten beams. The floor was littered with loose stones—and something else, gleaming faintly in the torchlight.
She bent down and picked it up. A human bone, small, perhaps from a hand or foot. She dropped it in disgust and continued, crouched, breathing heavily in the stale air. The tunnel turned left, descending further, deeper into the mountain. At the end was a small chamber carved into the living rock. There, in the center, was something Catalina would never forget.
A human figure sat against the wall, head slumped, hands bound with rusty chains still nailed to the stone. The clothes were tattered, caked in dirt. The skin clung to the bones like dry parchment. But the horror was not just the corpse—it was what surrounded it: dozens of wooden crates stacked against the walls, filled with gold and silver coins, ingots, jewels—a fortune buried deep, guarded by someone left to die, chained, forgotten.
Catalina stepped back, dizzy, sickened. She didn’t know who this person was, how they had ended up there, or who had chained them. But she knew she had discovered something meant never to be found. As she tried to process it, she heard something above—footsteps, heavy footsteps coming from the house.
Several people were coming down the tunnel. Catalina swatted out the torch and pressed herself against the wall, disappearing into the shadows. Footsteps were approaching, accompanied by voices, voices she recognized. One was Jacinto’s, the foreman’s; the other was deeper, more authoritarian. It was Don Erasmo Villarreal’s voice. They entered the chamber with rose-tinted lanterns that illuminated everything. Don Erasmo was an old man with a hunched back and sunken eyes, but he still commanded respect.
He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a dusty suit. Jacinto followed closely behind, rifle in hand. Don Erasmo stopped in front of the chained corpse and looked at it with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction. He said, almost to himself, that after so many years he still enjoyed seeing that wretch rotting there as he deserved. Jacinto asked if it wasn’t time to take the gold, now that the widow and her brats were snooping around.
Don Erasmo shook his head. He said not yet, that they needed to wait longer, for people to forget the old stories about the Medina treasure. He said that gold had cost many lives and he wasn’t going to risk someone coming to claim it. Now, Catalina listened to everything from her hiding place, her heart pounding so hard she was afraid they would hear her. She understood then what had happened. Don Erasmo had stolen that treasure, had killed for it, and had left someone—probably the original owner or a witness—chained down there to die slowly, making sure no one knew the truth.
And now, decades later, she still guarded that secret like a watchdog. Don Erasmo and Jacinto circled the vault, checking the boxes, counting the coins with their eyes, making sure everything was still in its place. Then they went up the tunnel, their voices fading until they were gone. Catalina waited in the darkness, trembling, until she was sure they were gone. Then she lit the torch again, looked one last time at the chained corpse, and made another decision—a decision that would change everything.
She wasn’t going to let Don Erasmo get away with it. She wasn’t going to let that gold, stained with blood and injustice, remain buried while her children starved. And she wasn’t going to let the soul of that poor wretch, chained up, remain trapped down there, without rest, without justice, without peace. Catalina took one of the smaller boxes, hoisted it with effort, and climbed up the tunnel. She knew what she was doing was dangerous. She knew Don Eraserasmo would kill her if he found out, but she also knew she had nothing left to lose, and that sometimes when there’s nothing left, the only option is to fight.
Catalina carried the box to the grotto, hiding it among the rocks at the back, under the serape and some loose stones she arranged so it wouldn’t be seen. The children were fast asleep, exhausted from hunger and fatigue, and noticed nothing. Catalina sat beside them, her hands still trembling, and tried to gather her thoughts. She possessed a fortune that wasn’t hers, but neither was it from charity. It was a stolen treasure, stained with blood, guarded by a dead man who had never received justice.
And now she, a poor and desperate widow, had become the sole witness to that old crime that still lingered in the shadows. But Catalina knew she couldn’t simply take the gold and leave. Don Erasmo and Jacinto were watching the place. If they noticed anything was missing, they would search for her, and when they found her, there would be no mercy. They would accuse her of theft, imprison her, and leave her children abandoned. She needed a plan, she needed help, and above all, she needed evidence of what Don Erasmo had done so that the truth would come to light and she wouldn’t be the only one to blame.
The next day, as the children ate the last piece of tortilla, Catalina told them they had to stay in the grotto without making a sound, without going out, without drawing attention to themselves. Tomás, always serious, asked if something was wrong. Catalina stroked his head and told him everything would be alright, but that she needed him to be brave and take care of his siblings. Tomás nodded, accepting this responsibility that no nine-year-old should have to bear. Lupita asked if her mother was coming back.
Catalina kissed her forehead and promised that she would always return. Catalina walked down to the village along hidden paths, avoiding the main road. She arrived mid-morning when the streets were half empty and the sun beat down on the adobe houses. She went straight to the parish priest’s house, a small building next to the church with whitewashed walls and a wooden door that was always open for anyone who needed to confess or ask for advice. Catalina entered without knocking and found Father Anselmo sitting in an old chair reading the Bible, wearing round glasses that slipped down his nose.
The priest looked up, surprised to see her. Catalina wasted no time; she told him everything. She spoke of the cellar, the tunnel, the chained corpse, the hidden gold, and the conversation she had overheard between Don Erasmo and Jacinto. She told him that this man, the chieftain whom everyone respected out of fear, was a murderer and a thief, and she begged for his help. Father Anselmo listened in silence, his face growing paler by the minute. When Catalina finished, the old priest took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.
He told her that what she was saying was very serious, that accusing Don Erasmo without proof was dangerous, that it could cost her her life. Catalina replied that she had proof, that the body was there chained up and anyone could see it, that the gold was hidden there and that Don Erasmo had admitted it himself. Father Anselmo sighed deeply and stood up. He told her that if what she was saying was true, then they had to act quickly before Don Erasmo suspected anything.
He told her he knew someone in the city, an honest judge who wasn’t on the chieftain’s payroll and who could help them, but they needed time and, in the meantime, Catalina had to stay hidden, avoid drawing attention to herself, and not do anything that would put her in danger. Catalina agreed, but asked him for one more favor. She asked him to give her some food for her children because they had nothing left. Father Anselmo agreed and gave her a bag with bread, dried cheese, and a few wrinkled apples left over from the previous year’s harvest.
Catalina took the bag, thanked him with tears in her eyes, and left the priest’s house unnoticed. But someone did see her. From the window of the store, Don Roque, the shopkeeper, had been watching. And as soon as Catalina disappeared down the road, Don Roque ran to Don Erasmo’s ranch, eager to tell him that the widow had been snooping around, asking questions, talking to the priest. Don Roque knew that Don Erasmo paid well for information, and Don Roque needed the money.
Catalina knew nothing of it until it was too late. When she arrived back at the grotto, it was already mid-afternoon. The children greeted her with hugs and smiles and devoured the bread and cheese as if it were a feast. Catalina sat with them, trying to savor this peaceful moment, knowing it might be the last for a long time. But just as the sun began to dip behind the mountains, she heard the sound of horses’ hooves—many hooves—and men’s voices coming up the path.
Catalina jumped to her feet, her heart pounding in her throat. She told the children to run, to hide among the rocks, to be quiet. Tomás obeyed quickly, leading Lupita and Carlitos deeper into the cave, where the shadows were thickest. Catalina stood before the entrance, bracing for the worst. Five men arrived on horseback. Don Erasmo rode in front with Jacinto beside him, and three cowboys armed with rifles trailed behind them.
They dismounted slowly, studying the place. Don Erasmo approached Catalina with heavy steps and looked at her with cold eyes, devoid of any compassion. He asked her what she was doing there. Catalina, her voice firm, though trembling inside, told him she was seeking refuge, that she had nowhere else to go. Don Erasmo smiled, but it was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He told her he knew she had been in the old house, that she had gone down to the cellar, that she had seen things she shouldn’t have seen.
He asked her if she had taken anything. Catalina shook her head. She said she hadn’t taken anything, that she was just looking for a safe place for her children. Don Erasmo didn’t believe her. He signaled to Jacinto, and the foreman entered the cave with two of the cowboys. Catalina tried to stop them, but one of the men pushed her back, making her fall onto the rocks. She lay there with scraped hands and her heart pounding like a drum as she listened to the men’s footsteps inside the cave, rummaging through everything, searching.
