Roberto's Nigasoota
January 14, 2001
Roberto Garcia was a wetback. We were both about 10 years old when I first met him – sometime about 1946. His father, Juan, worked for my father on the Reising-Sterling Ranch west of Edinburg, Texas. For the next few years, Roberto was probably my closest companion. I felt comfortable in his company, maybe because we shared similar personalities and interests. Neither of us exhibited a particular fondness for school and much preferred to be hunting than imprisoned in some classroom. Roberto exuded a calm, friendly and fairly confident demeanor. I feel certain that I learned more from Roberto than he learned from me. Likely, he picked up some words in English from me, but I don’t remember any great problem with communication. I knew some Spanish (mostly cuss words) and Roberto knew some English and what we could not communicate with hand signs must not have been all that important.
Roberto was also a hunter. I likely learned more hunting skills from Roberto than I did the rest of my life. He taught me by example. He explained that in Mexico, hunting was a very important source of food. Often, the only meat on the table came from hunting. He had a very keen eye, had a fairly clear understanding of animal behavior and was a great shot. His weapon used, and about the only one he could afford, was what was commonly called a “nigger shooter”-- pronounced something like “nigasoota.” "Resortera" was the name most frequently used in Mexico.
Roberto’s nigasoota was a work of art. He invested greatly in the selection of materials and craftsmanship. Maybe the most important component was the selection of rubber. Not just any kind of rubber was suitable. The old inner tube must be made of red rubber that had the appropriate elastic properties. It must not be too old, or cracks would appear in the rubber causing it to weaken rapidly when used. In about 1946, there was a shortage of real red rubber because WWII interfered with rubber production in Southeast Asia. That awful, black, synthetic rubber was plentiful, but it lacked the elastic punch needed for a quality nigasoota. I really don’t remember the source of the red rubber inner tubes that we used, but likely Roberto searched mightily among the local tire companies in Edinburg for a prize specimen. Of course, Roberto’s family was poor – though fairly rich compared to his friends who remained back in Mexico – so quality scissors were in short supply. To cut the rubber bands for a quality nigasoota required a sharp pair of scissors. Any small nick along the edges of the rubber bands, or if the bandwidth was not maintained within certain limits, a weakness resulted that was certain to be the place the band would break. There were few greater frustrations than to have a nigasoota fail during a critical phase of the hunt. A good hunter required a quality weapon and Roberto knew how to make them. Anyway, Roberto could use a sharp knife to cut the bands, but a sharp pair of scissors was better. The best scissors in the neighborhood could be found in my mother’s sewing basket. However, they did not remain the best for long, because cutting rubber was not conducive to maintaining a sharp edge on the scissors. “Winfield, have you been using my scissors again?” Mom would complain.
“Well, maybe a little,” I might reply. My mom did not believe in punishment so a new pair of scissors would appear in her basket and the process repeated. After all, what was more important, a quality nigasoota or a sharp pair of scissors for cutting cloth?
Roberto was also amazingly skilled at cutting the rubber band sized strips of rubber needed for wrapping the two large rubber strips to the wooden stalk. He could cut and wrap these strips so that they were comparable in esthetic appearance to the precision needlework of my Aunt Augusta.
Next came the leather rock holder. The soft, malleable leather from a tongue of leather boots was best. There always seemed to be a shortage of such leather, but we managed. When my older brother, Bruce came home from the Army and asked who had cut the tongues out of his favorite pair of boots, I could not admit to the crime. I think maybe he blamed my younger brother, Scott. I had experienced his wrath as a younger boy and found lying much easier than whippings. God and Jesus would just have to understand.
Roberto was also consistent when cutting the leather rock holder. Cut the two holes too close to the edge and they would break. Make the holder too large and it would be noisy when shot so that birds would hear it and fly before the missile reached them. Make it too small and it would not hold as many rock sizes. The shape was also critical. Not square or pointed, but oblong with equilateral sides. Best done by first cutting a rectangular piece, then bending it in the middle so that the two sides and the end were cut simultaneously. The symmetry of Roberto’s rock holders were near perfection. They were strong, durable and aerodynamic, but supple enough so that the rock inside could be felt, held and released with precision. The rough side of the leather formed the inside of the holder, which held the rock, and the slick side was held by the fingers. When launching the rock, it was best to aim carefully and gradually release the grip on the holder, so that the rock was launched as smoothly as possible. This ensured the greatest accuracy. But snap shooting was most common.
The stock was selected with great care. Usually, mesquite was chosen because the limbs in a fork often formed a more perfect V-shape than other types of wood available to us. This gave the nigasoota a near perfect balance. Considerable attention was given to stripping the bark and whittling the two arms and the handle to precise lengths. Too long and the handle would be unwieldy; too short and it would not fit the hand. The main problem with mesquite was that when it dried, it tended to split.
Size and shape of ammunition was critical. Almost all rocks curve when shot and, unlike a baseball, the direction of the curve is unpredictable. A rock with a flat side or projections will curve excessively when shot and almost never hit the target. Rocks which approached the shape of a marble were the most accurate. In the sandy country west of Edinburg, there were few rocks from natural sources. The primary source of rocks was from gravel roads. However, some of the best rocks were obtained from those used to mix with cement for building concrete structures. Often these rocks were obtained from old river beds, where the rocks had been bounced down rocky creek beds during floods so that the rough edges had been worn off. Of course, the best ammunition was marbles or ball bearings, but who could afford those? We spend hours on our hands and knees selecting only the best rocks. If we were lucky, we left for a hunt with a plentiful supply of free ammunition. The pockets in our Levis would bulge with ammunition so that some days the outside of my upper leg would become sore from the weight of all those rocks scraping on tender, very white, skin. (Skin color was most apparent when we swam naked in the canals. We never talked about swimming naked, it was just the way swimming was done. No girls were ever invited – at least at that age. I was a little shocked one day when my Dad caught us swimming in the big canal. With little hesitation, he also shed his clothes and joined us. It was neat!) Anyway, the Garcia boys had this beautiful, brown skin and mine was almost snow white and covered with freckles. “Aye, que pecoso” (how freckled) they would say in jest. “Bolillo” was another term applied to us gringos because our skin was as white as the white bolillo bread they ate. My nose was always red and peeling and Roberto could go most of the day without a hat and not burn. Life was just not fair!
For me, hunting was mostly just for fun. However, it sometimes provided a little meat for my dogs (Thunderhead, Lady and Little Lady). But when hunting with Roberto, the doves, quail, rabbits, grackles, redwings and meadowlarks we killed often found their way into Mrs. Garcia’s stews. My mouth still waters when I think of her stews. The combination of wild game, potatoes, tomatoes, chiles, garlic, salt, and pepper scooped up with fresh, rolled up flour tortillas was one of my childhood joys. Cooking over the raised fireplace in the kitchen in the small, three-room brick home that the Ranch provided to its workers, added the tantalizing aroma of mesquite smoke. The attention of Roberto’s pretty, dark-eyed sister, Rebecca did not detract from the experience. There were incentives to be proficient with our weapons.
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| Hunters |
To bring home the most meat, it was wise to think like a hawk or coyote. Take easy prey! A whitewing dove on the nest made an easy target. Low-flying whitewings in large flocks could sometimes be shot out of the air. Mourning doves in large groups feeding around the silage troughs during winter were susceptible to a large bouncing rock. A bobwhite quail flushed into an ebony tree could be approached more closely than one on the ground. A sound made to simulate a baby red-winged blackbird in distress would bring the adults within easy range. Wildlife conservation was not a high priority.
But our nigasootas were not used exclusively for hunting. We spent many hours engaged in shooting contests. The favorite was to see who could break the most bottles tossed into the air. The thunk sound of a rock hitting a tin can and seeing it change it downward trajectory was also very satisfying. But going to war with nigasootas was the greatest challenge. Chinaberries were used as ammunition because they would not kill or usually maim a human. But they really hurt! We divided into gangs: the Ageila negras (Black eagles) and the Calaveras (those who lead a wild life). When on the attack, the opponent could be intimidated if the aggressor yelled “ageila negra” at the top of his voice. But to claim that this was a harmless adventure would be wrong. Two of my brothers suffered life-long eye injuries to these little green berries of Chinese origin. I shot lots of gringos and Mexicans with a nigasoota, but never once shot a single black person. So why in the heck were they called nigger shooters? I’ve been shot so often that maybe they should be called “gringo shooters.”
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| Weighing Cotton |
I have very fond memories of growing up with Roberto and his younger brother, Ruben. (My mom called them the Black clouds for some unknown reason). But, as luck would have it, our lives changed and became much more serious. My dad thought I should become more useful, so every summer I worked with Leocadio, Bejamar, Benito, Charlie Reyes and others carrying irrigation pipes, rounding up crossbred cattle, shoveling silage or weighing cotton for $20 a week. Rebecca turned 16 or so and to my great disappointment married one of the Reyes boys. They had a great wedding under the mesquite, ebony and huisache trees at the ranch. The blood pudding and cow brains were a little hard to take but they were served with white lace tablecloths. The air was filled with accordion music and there was dancing on the packed earth.
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| Wild Winfield |
I graduated to BB guns and then 22 rifles for hunting. School became somewhat more important. The Reising Construction Company went bankrupt, which required that the Reising-Sterling Ranch be sold to pay off debts. Roberto and his family moved to Washington to pick cherries.
Now, after a life of near workaholic behavior, I have retired. Maybe it is time to craft another of Roberto’s nigasootas and find some more Mexican friends.
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