A Legend of Wealth and Madness

There’s an old saying: children, drunks, and madmen always tell the truth. And in the quiet town of Acuñense, where life ambles along at the pace of a stubborn mule, it’s this saying that has kept alive one of the most peculiar stories the locals will tell you. Some call it legend, others swear it’s gospel truth. But everyone agrees on one thing – it revolves around a shepherd named Justo, or Justino, as he was affectionately known.

Now, before you start picturing some wise old Druid or Gandalf-like figure, let me stop you. Justo was no Merlin. He wasn’t the type to conjure lightning from a staff or predict the end of the world based on the number of crows sitting on a fence. No, he was your everyday man of the fields, a humble shepherd who, through decades of tending livestock and watching the skies, had somehow managed to cultivate an almost mystical understanding of nature.

Justo was a man of medium height – neither impressively tall nor laughably short. His face had that well-worn look, weathered by years of squinting at the horizon under the scorching Mexican sun. His mind? Not exactly crammed with Shakespearean sonnets or quantum physics, but sharp enough when it came to the important things. Rain, stars, sheep – that was his world.

Now, Justo was the sort who could predict the weather better than any bumbling meteorologist on the telly. He didn’t need satellites or Doppler radar. No, all he needed was a glance at the night sky. He could tell you when the rains were coming, how much of a downpour to expect, and whether or not you’d be needing an extra coat tomorrow. Comets, eclipses, meteor showers – the bloke had a bead on all of it. Farmers swore by him. The kind of man who’d look up at a meteor and casually say, “Ah, that one’s blue, so it’ll be a good crop next season.” Absolute genius, or complete lunatic, depending on who you asked.

And then, one day, the universe – in its infinite wisdom or maybe just out of sheer boredom – decided to throw Justo a curveball.

It was a winter afternoon, dreary and grey, the sort of day that promised cold fingers, wet socks, and nothing much in the way of excitement. The stars hadn’t hinted at anything particularly dramatic. No sudden cosmic warnings, no cometary omens. And certainly no rats running in terrified circles, which – according to Justo – was a sure sign that something was amiss. Nope, it was business as usual in the quiet hills near Paso del Muerto. Justo was out with his flock, the sheep grazing contentedly as they do, when suddenly – because of course it was suddenly – the heavens opened, and down came the rain.

Now, Justo, for all his astronomical prowess, had somehow not anticipated this. But he was no fool. Rain like that? You don’t stand around gawping at the sky like some city idiot without an umbrella. You find shelter, and fast. His sheep, bless their woolly little souls, seemed to have an instinct for it. They trotted off towards a cluster of oak trees and pines, their hooves squelching through the mud. Justo, with a grunt of approval, followed suit.

And this is where things get a bit interesting. For within that cluster of trees, hidden away from casual sight, was a cave. Not just any cave – a cave that, to Justo’s knowledge, had never been there before. Now, most people in his position would’ve thought, "Well, isn’t that convenient," and promptly hustled inside to avoid getting soaked. But not Justo. No, his first reaction was more along the lines of, “Hang on a minute. This seems suspicious.” Still, curiosity got the better of him, as it tends to do, and in he went.

The cave itself wasn’t enormous. About two metres high, seven metres deep. But what really got Justo’s attention was not the size – it was what he found inside. As he stepped in, he noticed something glittering in the dim light filtering through the trees. There, scattered in the dusty shadows, were rows of bags. And not just any bags. These were stuffed with coins. Gold coins.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I found a random pile of gold in a cave, my first thought would be to start planning my early retirement. But Justo? Well, he had a slightly different reaction. First, he stood there in disbelief, blinking at the treasure like a man who’s just walked in on a unicorn having tea with Bigfoot. Then, because he was only human, he bent down and grabbed a handful of the stuff. It was real. Cold, hard gold. The kind of treasure that would make Indiana Jones do a double take.

But as if that wasn’t enough, there was more. Above him, painted on the cave’s ceiling, was a mural – a work of art that seemed impossibly ancient. Strange figures and symbols danced across the stone, telling a story that only the heavens themselves might understand. Justo, in awe, stared at it for what felt like an eternity before muttering to himself, “The Indians.” He wasn’t exactly wrong. The indigenous people of the region were known for their mysterious cave paintings, after all.

And then, in a moment of sheer panic – as if the weight of the discovery had finally crashed down on him – Justo did what any sane person would do. He threw the gold back on the pile and bolted for the exit. But not before snatching up a few coins for proof. After all, no one was going to believe him without a little evidence.

Justo’s Treasure and Mr. Maya’s Scheme

There’s nothing quite like finding treasure, is there? Just imagine – you're in the middle of nowhere, up to your ankles in mud, herding sheep in the pouring rain, when suddenly, you stumble upon a fortune in gold. It’s the kind of thing that could only happen to someone like Justo Molina, a shepherd so in tune with the stars, the weather, and the earth that it’s as if the universe owed him a favor.

So, after finding a hidden cave filled with gold, what does Justo do? Does he run off and buy himself a mansion with a swimming pool and a couple of sports cars? No. He does the most sensible thing a shepherd could think of – he heads straight to the Big House to tell his boss, Mr. Mayers, or "Maya" as the 1,500 or so workers called him. Because of course, if you find a pile of gold in the wilderness, your first instinct is to report it to your employer. Obviously.

Now, Maya wasn’t your typical landowner. He wasn’t some caricature of an evil landlord, twirling a moustache and kicking orphans. No, Maya was clever. Too clever, really. The kind of clever that always left you feeling slightly uneasy, like when you’re playing chess with someone and they’re smiling way too much for your liking. So when Justo bursts in, drenched from the rain and practically vibrating with excitement about his discovery, Maya doesn’t blink. He just sits there, quietly sipping his French wine – because, of course, French wine – and looks at Justo like a man who’s heard the punchline to the joke before it was even told.

"Boss, I found a treasure," Justo blurts out, breathless.

Now, let’s pause here for a second. If someone walks up to you and says, “I’ve found a treasure,” what’s your first reaction? Is it excitement? Panic? A frantic Google search for the nearest bank? Not Maya. He doesn’t even flinch. He simply looks up from his glass and says, as casually as if they were discussing the weather, “No, Justo, that’s my money. I left it there so some bandit wouldn’t bother killing me for it.”

Right. That’s it. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a huge stash of gold left in a cave for safekeeping. Perfectly normal. Because, you know, it’s not like banks exist or anything. But Maya wasn’t done. “Since you’ve found it,” he continues, “one day when you’re drunk, you’ll tell everyone about it, so we’d better get it now before you spill the beans.”

And this is the thing about Maya – he’s always thinking ten steps ahead. He knows Justo is going to run his mouth the moment he’s had a few too many sips of tequila. So instead of letting the situation spiral out of control, he takes charge. "Sit by the fire," he says, pouring Justo another glass of French wine. "You’ve had a shock. Let’s calm those nerves before we do anything drastic."

Then, as if it were all part of some preordained plan, Maya calls for the hacienda’s doctor. Not because Justo is injured, mind you, but because, well, why not? A bit of medicine never hurt anyone. Besides, it adds an air of importance to the situation, like a scene out of a melodrama where the doctor arrives just in time to deliver the bad news. Only in this case, the news is that Justo’s stumbled upon a fortune that isn’t really his.

But here’s where things get interesting. Maya didn’t just plan to swindle Justo out of his treasure and call it a day. No, no. That would be far too simple. Instead, Maya has a grander scheme in mind. That very afternoon, he gives his stewards a series of orders, the kind that make you wonder if this man is running a hacienda or orchestrating some sort of elaborate heist.

He tells them to send all the workers – and I mean all of them – off to the town to celebrate the November 20th holiday. A nice little holiday. Ten days off. Full pay. Even the blacksmith and the doctor are sent packing. The foremen, the cooks, the teachers, the cowboys, the lot of them are dispatched in a grand procession, like something out of a carnival. They’re told to collect their wages in town and enjoy themselves. Why? Well, Maya concocts a story about some big buyers coming to the hacienda and needing a bit of privacy. And because this is Maya we’re talking about, no one questions it.

The parade starts at dawn. A long line of people streaming out of the hacienda, all of them chattering excitedly, completely baffled but overjoyed at their unexpected windfall. It’s the talk of the town. Workers and their families, children and schoolteachers, everyone sets off in what can only be described as the world’s strangest holiday. They’re paid for ten days’ work – something that’s never happened before, and never will again – and they don’t have the faintest idea why. Maybe they thought it was an early Christmas bonus. Maybe they just assumed Maya had finally lost his marbles.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the only person left is, you guessed it, Justo. Why? Because, according to Maya, Justo “knows these places better than anyone and is a very good cook.” Right. Like that’s the reason. It’s not because Justo found a cave full of gold and now Maya needs him out of the way while he quietly disposes of it. No, of course not. It's definitely about his culinary skills.

But here’s where Maya’s genius really shines. By sending everyone away, he ensures there are no witnesses to whatever he’s about to do. And make no mistake, he’s up to something. You don’t clear out an entire hacienda just because you’ve got a few buyers coming for a chat. This was a man who could think his way out of a straitjacket with his hands tied behind his back. And you’d better believe he had a plan for that treasure.

The next day, Maya and Justo sit by the fireplace, sipping wine and eating venison, while the workers’ holiday procession fades into the distance. The hacienda is quiet, save for the sound of the wind whispering through the trees and the occasional clink of gold coins as Maya counts his fortune. So what happened next?

The Transformation of Justo

There are silences, and then there are silences. The kind that make you feel as if the whole world has paused, holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. It’s the silence you find in the mountains – where even the wind seems to stop whispering, the animals don’t dare shuffle, and the hammer of the blacksmith lies still on the anvil. And then, like a rude guest barging into a quiet room, a metal wagon wheel shatters that silence.

A cold winter sun hanging lazily in the sky, too tired to properly warm anything, and a lonely wagon creaking along a forgotten trail behind the old hacienda. At the front of the wagon, Maya – the calculating, always-scheming hacienda owner – was getting impatient.

“We’re here, boss,” said Justo, who by now had become Maya’s right-hand man in this strange and secretive venture. "We have to leave the wagon here and go on foot."

Maya, who had been counting on the speed of a horse and the cover of night to finish their task, wasn’t in the mood to dawdle. He barked, “Hurry up, Justo, before it gets late, and the rain and that damn north wind come again.”

The treasure that Justo had stumbled upon, that glittering pile of gold in the hidden cave, had by now become Maya’s obsession. They’d been making trip after trip, hauling sack after sack of gold under the cover of darkness, moving it to God-knows-where. And each time, Maya thought, “That’s it, we’re done. Surely, there can’t be any more.” But every time, there was more. Piles of it. Enough to make even the calmest man start hearing whispers in the wind.

They were on their last trip now. Maya had begun to feel the weight of it – not the physical burden, mind you, but the mental one. There’s only so much treasure a man can haul before he starts to question reality. As they loaded the last of the gold into the wagon, Maya turned to Justo and said, almost philosophically, “Leave some coins behind.”

“Leave some?” Justo asked, confused. “But it’s yours, boss. How are you going to leave money?”

Maya sighed, the sort of sigh a man makes when he’s grown tired of explaining the universe. “No, Justo. It’s not mine. I thought it was. But it’s not. Oh well, we’ve got enough. You and I? We’re in business together now. This is your fortune too. When you go to the bank, they’ll give you whatever you ask for.”

Justo, ever the loyal sheepdog, nodded. “Okay, boss. If that’s how it is, we’re partners.”

And with that, they headed back to the hacienda for one final night. Tomorrow, they would set out for San Antonio, a place far from the prying eyes of the villagers and the workers, where they could finally turn their secret gold into something more. The following day, Maya, Justo, and the treasure disappeared, leaving behind a ranch that was strangely empty. The workers, returning from town after their unexpected holiday, found themselves with nothing but questions. Where had Maya and Justo gone? And more importantly, why?

Days turned into weeks. Rumors swirled like dust devils in the streets of Acuñense. Some said Maya had taken off to start a new life in America. Others whispered that the treasure had driven both men mad. But then, about 10 days later, Justo returned. Not Maya. Justo.

But it wasn’t the Justo they knew.

Gone was the humble shepherd who could predict the rain by looking at the stars, the man who knew every inch of the land as if it were written in the lines of his hands. In his place was someone else entirely. He stepped off the wagon wearing new clothes – crisp, expensive, and oddly out of place in the dusty ranch. He had a fresh pack of American cigarettes in his pocket, and he puffed on them like a man who had discovered a new addiction.

But it wasn’t the clothes, or the cigarettes, or even his strange absence that unsettled the workers. It was Justo’s behavior. The man who had once been so sharp, so aware of the rhythms of the earth, now seemed disconnected, disoriented, almost as if his mind had been dulled by something. His thoughts were scattered, his sentences disjointed. And the most unsettling part? He kept muttering the same thing, over and over again: “I’m in company with the boss.”

Company? What company? Maya was nowhere to be seen. It was as if he had vanished into thin air, leaving Justo to return alone – but not alone. The other workers could see it in his eyes: something had changed. He had been altered.

And from that moment on, Justo stopped being a worker. Oh no, he wasn’t about to go back to tending sheep or herding cattle. Instead, he began to act as if he owned the place. He came and went from the ranch as he pleased, strolling around as if the entire estate was his personal fiefdom. He gave orders – and to everyone’s shock, no one dared to contradict him. The workers, the foremen, even the stewards who once held the hacienda in an iron grip, all seemed to fall under some strange spell. When Justo spoke, they listened.

He had access to everything. The cattle, the horses, the finest mules – all at his disposal. If Justo wanted something, he took it. No questions asked. And why? Because of that strange partnership he claimed to have with Maya. But where was Maya?

The workers were too scared to ask. After all, Justo wasn’t quite right anymore. There was something... off about him. His eyes, once sharp and alert, now seemed clouded, as if they were looking at something far away, something no one else could see. His words didn’t make sense half the time, but no one dared cross him.

And so, life on the ranch carried on, albeit with a shadow hanging over it. Maya’s disappearance, Justo’s strange behavior, and the whispers of treasure became the stuff of legend.

The Good Justo

You know, there are stories, and then there are stories. The kind where you have to stop midway through and say, "Hang on, this can’t be real. It’s too absurd, too ridiculous." But the thing is, life often is ridiculous, especially if you’re a man like Justo Molina.

Yes, that’s right. Justo Molina. The same man who once roamed the hills, herding sheep, predicting the weather by staring at the stars, and living the humble, dirt-under-the-nails life of a ranch hand. But after that strange, fateful trip with his boss Maya to the hidden cave of gold – where they hauled out more treasure than any sane man could carry – life for Justo took a turn. A rather lucrative turn.

Let’s talk about what happened after the San Antonio trip, shall we? Because that’s when the hacienda really came into its own. And by "came into its own," I mean it became a beast of legend. Forget the modest, sleepy estate it once was. After that gold started flowing, the place boomed like a champagne cork at New Year’s.

The hacienda wasn’t just successful – it was mind-bogglingly prosperous. Need a white horse? No problem. How many do you need? 500? 1,000? 4,000? They had so many horses, all pristine, white, and practically gleaming in the sun, you’d think they were breeding them out of thin air. And that was just the horses. We’re not even getting into the cattle, which were counted not in hundreds but in thousands. Tens of thousands of goats and sheep roamed the fields, their numbers so high you could probably hear them bleating from across the border.

And they didn’t just supply the local markets. Oh no, that would be too simple, too boring. They were shipping these animals all the way to Venezuela, expenses paid, because why not? If you’ve got the means, might as well flaunt it, right?

Meanwhile, our good friend Justo – yes, the same shepherd who once spent his days counting stars instead of coins – was living a life so lavish, it would make a modern-day Instagram influencer jealous. Gone were the days of trudging through the mud with a stick in hand, herding sheep under the blistering sun. Now, Justo had style. And, naturally, a horse-drawn carriage, because why walk when you can rent yourself a carriage and be chauffeured around like royalty?

He would leisurely trot between the town and the hacienda in this grand carriage, making a spectacle of himself wherever he went. And where was he going, you might ask? Oh, just to the Bank of Mexico and London, no less. With what? Two or three bulging knapsacks, of course. You know, the kind you’d expect an outlaw to carry after robbing a train. Except Justo wasn’t robbing anyone. He’d walk into these banks, casually drop his knapsacks on the counter, and ask for money. And what did the bankers do? They filled them right up with silver – fifty-cent coins, peso coins, you name it. Never once did they refuse him.

Can you imagine that? Walking into a bank with bags full of money and getting them refilled as if you were asking for more water in your cup at a restaurant.

This was Justo’s life now. Rolling in so much wealth that he didn’t even need to ask for loans – he was essentially making withdrawals from life itself. He’d stroll around, pockets jangling with silver, spending it as freely as a sailor on shore leave. And for all his newfound wealth, all his connections with the upper crust of society, Justo remained Justo. He didn’t care for fancy airs or intellectual discussions. No, he kept things simple. He was kind, generous even, and lived life on his terms.

But let’s not get carried away imagining Justo as some saintly figure. The man indulged, and he indulged well. He was often found in the local cantina, surrounded by admirers, talking about how he’d managed to live this long without ever needing to cram his head with letters or books. He said it himself, “I’ve got all this wealth and all these women, and not a single letter in my head!” And you know what? He seemed rather proud of that fact.

Women? Oh yes, plenty of them. Justo wasn’t shy when it came to enjoying the finer things in life, and women were definitely part of the package. He had his pick, and he lived comfortably, never without the company he desired. Yet, through it all, he remained kind-hearted, never letting his good fortune turn him into a tyrant.

For years, the hacienda thrived under this new golden age. The animals multiplied, the shipments continued, and Justo strolled around, more a figure of legend than a man, with his bags of silver and his carefree attitude. But, as is the case with every good story, time eventually catches up.

Justo wasn’t invincible. Despite his wealth, his charm, and his peculiar fortune, his body started to fail him. Ailments crept in, the kind that no amount of gold or silver could fix. And one day, Justo had to pay the ultimate tribute to Mother Earth – as we all must. He passed on, leaving behind a legacy that, to this day, people still talk about over their drinks in the cantina.

He didn’t live forever, but Justo Molina lived well. He went from a humble shepherd to a man who could walk into banks with sacks of money and not be laughed out of the door. He made his mark on the world not with fancy words or high education, but through sheer luck, kindness, and a healthy dose of not giving a damn. And really, isn’t that what we all want?

In the end, his life became a symbol of something almost mythical. The story of the simple man who, without much in his head but plenty in his heart, managed to outdo them all. Maybe it was the gold, maybe it was fate, or maybe it was just the stars aligning in his favor. But for Justo Molina, the man who never worried too much about the details, life turned out to be quite the ride.

In-text Citation: (Medina Zapata , 2021, pp. 18-21)