Sodom and Gomorrah, Texas | Page 2

miles of the Santa Magdalena.
But he was systematic, so he checked the list over again and again.
There seemed to be somebody missing. Oh, yes, himself. He got
another form and filled out all the data on himself.
Now, in one way of looking at it, his part in the census was finished. If
only he had looked at it that way, he would have saved worry and

trouble for everyone, and also ten thousand lives. But the instructions
they had given him were ambiguous, for all that they had tried to make
them clear.
So very early the next morning he rose and cooked beans, and said,
"Might as well take them all."
He called Mula from the thorn patch where she was grazing, gave her
salt and loaded her again. Then they went to take the rest of the census,
but in fear. There was a clear duty to get the job done, but there was
also a dread of it that his superiors did not understand. There was
reason also why Mula was loaded so she could hardly walk with packs
of census forms.
Manuel prayed out loud as they climbed the purgatorial scarp above
Lost Souls Creek, "ruega por nosotros pecadores ahora--" the very
gulches stood angry and stark in the early morning--"y en la hora de
neustra muerte."
Three days later an incredible dwarf staggered into the outskirts of
High Plains, Texas, followed by a dying wolf-sized animal that did not
look like a wolf.
A lady called the police to save the pair from rock-throwing kids who
might have killed them, and the two as yet unclassified things were
taken to the station house.
The dwarf was three foot high, a skeleton stretched over with
brown-burnt leather. The other was an un-canine looking dog-sized
beast, so full of burrs and thorns that it might have been a porcupine. It
was a nightmare replica of a shrunken mule.
The midget was mad. The animal had more presence of mind: she lay
down quietly and died, which was the best she could do, considering
the state that she was in.
"Who is census chief now?" asked the mad midget. "Is Mr. Marshal's
boy the census chief?"

"Mr. Marshal is, yes. Who are you? How do you know Marshal? And
what is that which you are pulling out of your pants, if they are pants?"
"Census list. Names of everybody in the Santa Magdalena. I had to
steal it."
"It looks like microfilm, the writing is so small. And the roll goes on
and on. There must be a million names here."
"Little bit more, little bit more. I get two bits a name."
They got Marshal there. He was very busy, but he came. He had been
given a deadline by the mayor and the citizen's group. He had to
produce a population of ten thousand people for High Plains, Texas;
and this was difficult, for there weren't that many people in the town.
He had been working hard on it, though; but he came when the police
called him.
"You Marshal's little boy? You look just like your father," said the
midget.
"That voice, I should know that voice even if it's cracked to pieces.
That has to be Manuel's voice."
"Sure, I'm Manuel. Just like I left, thirty-five years ago."
"You can't be Manuel, shrunk three feet and two hundred pounds and
aged a million."
"You look here at my census slip. It says I'm Manuel. And here are
nine more of the regular people, and one million of the little people. I
couldn't get them on the right forms, though. I had to steal their list."
"You can't be Manuel," said Marshal.
"He can't be Manuel," said the big policemen and the little policeman.
"Maybe not, then," the dwarf conceded. "I thought I was, but I wasn't
sure. Who am I then? Let's look at the other papers and see which one I

am."
"No, you can't be any of them either, Manuel. And you surely can't be
Manuel."
"Give him a name anyhow and get him counted. We got to get to that
ten thousand mark."
"Tell us what happened, Manuel--if you are. Which you aren't. But tell
us."
"After I counted the regular people I went to count the little people. I
took a spade and spaded off the top of their town to get in. But they put
an encanto on me, and made me and Mula run a treadmill for
thirty-five years."
"Where was this?"
"At the little people town. Nuevo Danae. But after thirty-five years the
encanto wore off and Mula and I stole the list of names and ran away."
"But where did you really get this list of so many names written so
small?"
"Suffering saddle sores, Marshal,