Then the governor turned away. He mounted his horse and rode out of the valley without another word. His men followed. The dust of their departure hung in the air like a question.
Two more years passed. Others came—a runaway soldier, a widower with three children, a shepherd who had lost his flock. They built huts of mud and thatch. They raised a wooden cross on the spot where Alonso had first knelt. El Fundador
The governor laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. "You have nothing, old man." Then the governor turned away
The first time Alonso saw the valley, he wept. Not from beauty, but from exhaustion. His boots were shreds of leather wrapped in despair, his mule had died three days ago, and the men who had promised to follow him had turned back at the last mountain pass. He was alone. The dust of their departure hung in the air like a question
"I have a name," he said. "They call me El Fundador. And you cannot void what is already founded."
"That is a stick," the governor said.