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Anglos ahead for three of the five seats. Toward 10 o’clock the long wait wore on the mexicanos’ nerves, the crowd grew restless. Fuentes said they were nervous because they thought “it’s being stolen from them.” At the city hall steps, the lawmen grew impatient, too. One of them suddenly glared at Garcia. “I saw a Mexican woman today,” he said. “Old friend of mine. Known her for years. She worked for us for as long as I can remember. I said howdy to her and she just turned her head and walked by me. I tell you”his voice hard now”people don’t like outsiders coming down here and making your friends hate you. Folks don’t like it a bit . . . you outsiders. They’re not going to be responsible, I tell you.” Garcia, out of cigarettes, left his perch in front of city hall and walked the half block to the crowd of mexicanos at the end of the street. Several gathered around him, then more, and suddenly the whole crowd, thinking he had information, rushed in. Within 30 seconds there was a tangled mass, spilling into the streets near the Anglo side. Allee gave a signal, and Rangers rolled quietly out of cars. A photographer ran up, camera at the ready. The city marshals left us and began edging down the street. Garcia waved his arms for the crowd to move back, extricated himself, and walked briskly back toward city hall. The buzzing of the crowd subsided. At 10:20 the election judge appeared and said they were almost done. He addressed Garcia and Moore: “We have bent over backwards to vote your people. Illiterates, everyone. I don’t see how you can have any complaints.” “Thank you,” Moore Managed. The election judge went back in and in another two minutes, it was apparently all over. As if by magic Allee appeared at the steps and was the first one in. He took a quick glance at the results, looked through 8 The Texas Observer the glass door at the marshals, and gave a quick, time-honored gesture, an upsweep of his right fist. “We got the shaft,” said a deputy. The official totals: Maldonado 864, Cornejo 818, Cardenas 799, Hernandez 799, Mendoza 795; Ritchie 754, Brennan 717, Holsomback 716, Bookout 694, Galvan 664; the two independents, 164 and 146. Los cinco candidatos had swept the field. Garcia ran down the street to Fuentes. Within seconds there was pandemonium: the winners were hoisted up on shoulders, so was Garcia, so was Fuentes. Handshaking, horns, a couple of mexicano versions of the rebel yell, and remarkably suddenly they fled to cars and dispersed under the gazes of the Rangers. A tall, blond-haired man was heard to mutter on the square then, “God damn Mexicans. What chance has a white man got?” PACKING TO LEAVE in a motel the edge of town, Shafer said that the winners must have gotten between 50 and 100 Anglo votes. “There’s no other way to explain this margin.” At the next cabin, Henry Munoz of San Antonio and Garcia were having a discussion. “Now you have the problems of victory,” Munoz was saying. “They are harder than the problems of campaigns.” “You are saying that I cannot justify the means by the ends, eh?” Garcia replied. “We have to start somewhere. It is hard to fight fear. I told them the Rangers had come in here to protect them. This gave them heart, helped conquer the fear. ‘So it was not strictly the truth. The effect was, the Rangers’ presence helped win this election, no matter what the individual Rangers thought personally about us. From now on we have a slogan, `Remember Crystal City,’ and this will fight the fear for us. We will not have to do it thiS way again.” “I have heard you, and I still say, now come the problems of victory,” Munoz said. “What we have here is neither liberal nor conservative. It is only hunger, and exploitation, and a tradition of poverty to overcome.” “I agree, but saying it the way you do does not make it any easier for us to make ourselves understandable to our liberal friends,” Garcia said. “All I know is that fear and tradition have been conquered. There is a new respect. Self-respect. They have won, and throughout most of their lives, they have lost. Do not tell me that what has happened here is not good. It is a beginning.” “I agree, my amigo. It is only the beginning,” said Munoz. A patrol car pulled into the driveway. Allee got out and called for Shafer, confronting him with hands on hips, talking with the cigar in his teeth : “Shafer, this thing is getting out of hand. They’re running all over town honking their horns and shouting. Now we can’t have this sort of thing. People are getting upset, Shafer. They figure you started this thing and they’re upset. Mighty upset.” “What is it you want me to do?” said Shafer. “Where is your boy, Cornejo?” “I guess he’s over at his house.” “Well, let’s go over there. He’s got to control his people because this thing is getting out of hand.” Allee dominated the scene at Cornejo’s house, a wooden structure no better and no worse than a thousand other mexicano homes here. A small group listened as Allee lectured Cornejo on his new responsibilities. Those who were drinking beer held the bottles with difficulty, like hot lead. “Cornejo, you’re going to have to control your people. They must have respect,” Allee said. A bystander, obviously tipsy, responded, “Respect!” “Yes, respect.” Some frantic movement and the bystander was escorted to the door. “That’s right,” said Captain Allee, “take the out of here.” Then Allee clomped out, leaving a damper on things. THE MORNING AFTER the election, Maldonado, the quiet one who campaigned the least and led the ticket, was fired from his job at the Economart. His employer said he campaigned on election day instead of working. Maldonado said he did not blame his employer. The next day Cardenas, the truck