“I Haven’t Had S eex in Six Months” — The Giant Apache Woman Said to the Rancher
1. The Dust and the Arrival
The dust of Parras, Coahuila, rose like a lost soul over the parched fields of La Esperanza ranch. It was August, and the sun burned even the shadows. The men of the ranch hadn’t spoken to each other for three days. The boss, Don Crispín Saldívar, had died in a cantina during a confusing brawl that no one understood. No one knew who had started it or why, but the silence that followed was thicker than molasses.

In the middle of the corral, sitting on an old log, was the quietest cowboy in the north: Anselmo, nicknamed Mute Wheels. He was 34 years old, a widower since 27, with a weathered face and a Colt revolver that seemed like an extension of his left hand. He had been living in absolute peace for months, keeping to himself and not visiting nearby towns, dedicated solely to the ranch work and the silence that surrounded it.

That afternoon, when the heat seemed to bend the horizon, she arrived. The cart brought from Torreón creaked as it stopped in front of the hacienda. From the tarp emerged a woman who made all the ranch hands cross themselves twice. She was two meters and seven centimeters tall, barefoot, with strong arms and solid legs, the imposing presence of someone accustomed to long journeys. Her coppery-red hair was gathered in a thick braid that reached her waist. She wore a short, worn-out cotton dress, as if it had survived more than one difficult trip.

Her name was Brígida Ofarril, Irish on her father’s side, Tarahumara on her mother’s. She was 29 years old, a circus orphan. She had been moved several times by different traveling troupes, and on each occasion, she managed to leave of her own accord. The Malacara brothers, who had recently been portraying her as the giantess of the desert, claimed it was all part of their act, but one had turned up badly injured on the road, and the other insisted it was all her fault, though no one truly believed him.

Now she was there, sitting against the corral wall, her knees drawn up to her chest, a nasty wound on her left leg.

2. The Encounter and the Confession
Anselmo saw her and felt a strange mixture of concern and respect. He approached slowly, like someone afraid of waking a sacred animal.

“Who hurt you, woman?” he asked in that hoarse voice he rarely used.

Brígida looked down at him, even though she was sitting. Her eyes were green like aged mezcal.

“A heartless man who tried to take advantage of my path,” she answered bluntly, “but he couldn’t get the better of me.”

Then she added something that surprised everyone with its sincerity:

“I haven’t been able to rest in peace for months.” I just want peace and quiet, a place where no one will bother me.

Anselmo swallowed so hard it could be heard all the way to the corral. From that moment on, something changed in the air.

The ranch hands murmured that the giantess was a witch, that she had survived dangers that would have brought down any man, that if you looked at her for too long, she would intimidate your very soul. Anselmo didn’t believe in witches, but he did believe in the strength she exuded when she passed by.

That night he took her to the tool shed, the only place big enough for her size. He treated her wound with rum and clean rags. She didn’t complain once.

When he finished bandaging her, Brígida took the cowboy’s face in her enormous, yet gentle, hand.

“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

He barely nodded.

“Well, now we’re in a place where maybe we can start over,” she said with a laugh that made the rafters tremble.

3. The Telegram and the Decision
On the second day, a telegram arrived. Colonel Epifanio Garza, the deceased Don Crispín’s close friend, was coming with thirty men to seize the ranch. He claimed the will was forged and that the land belonged to him due to old debts.

The ranch hands began to desert. Anselmo stayed, and so did Brígida.

“Why don’t you leave?” he asked her.

“Because you’re not leaving,” she replied. “And because I don’t intend to let another act of abuse go unanswered.”

That night, as the ranch emptied, Anselmo and Brígida shared bread and coffee in the kitchen. The silence between them was comfortable. She told him she had been in circuses, at fairs, in clandestine fights. That the last time she had sex was six months earlier, with a man who didn’t know how to respect her and who ended up running away when she defended herself.

“I haven’t had sex in six months,” she said, without shame. “And I don’t miss it. What I miss is peace.”

Anselmo just looked at her. It wasn’t a vulgar confession, but the declaration of a woman tired of being seen as a spectacle.

4. The Corpse and the Bath
On the third day, the foreman’s body was found in the large mesquite tree, the victim of an attack no one could explain. Fear grew as thick as molasses.

That same afternoon, Anselmo found Brígida bathing in Hawai, the ranch’s natural pond. The water barely reached her waist. She breathed deeply, seeking peace. He froze.

She remained unfazed.

“Are you going to stay?”