The Ghostly Gallop Through the Night
Don Arturo Rojas recounts a chilling encounter with a spectral charro. As a young man, he and his friends pursued the ghostly figure on horseback but were unable to catch up. The charro led them to a cemetery and vanished.
Gather round, for this is no ordinary tale of cowboys and country dances. This is the kind of story where reality and folklore tangle together like a skein of barbed wire, refusing to disentangle or make a lick of sense. And, as it turns out, you can’t just shake off the dust of old legends—especially not in a place where the dead might just keep on riding.
Let’s set the stage. A young Don Arturo Rojas, brimming with the energy of his youth and itching for a bit of adventure. Imagine him in a dusty Mexican village, a place where neighbors know each other’s business down to the last tortilla, and the sound of hooves clopping along dirt roads is more reliable than any clock. Now, Don Arturo, like any respectable teenager with a head full of daring and a night ahead of him, had only one thing in mind: the dance in Jiménez. You see, back in those days, if you wanted a bit of excitement, you didn’t hop in a car or swipe at some app on your phone. No, no. You saddled up your horse, gave it a hearty kick, and rode through the night, feeling like a mix between John Wayne and a hometown hero.
But there’s a hitch, and this is where things start to turn dark. Because his parents, wise to the ways of the world and, no doubt, the mischief boys tend to find, denied him permission to go. Perhaps they’d seen the glint in his eye, or maybe they’d heard about the rumors creeping around the edges of the village. Either way, they knew something young Arturo didn’t. But, being a proper young man, he did what all young men do when faced with a firm “no”—he ignored it. With a few friends and a handful of sturdy horses, off they went, racing through the night, hooves pounding against the dirt, minds fixed on the fun to come.
As they trotted along, the group spotted something up ahead. Another horseman—no stranger by the looks of it. They figured it was Don Beto Faz, a man famous for his charro suit, complete with hat and all the trimmings. He was known for dressing like he’d just walked off the set of a Spaghetti Western, and people respected him for it. So, in a burst of excitement, they decided to catch up. They dug their heels into their horses and urged them forward, whipping them with all they had.
But no matter how hard they rode, they couldn’t close the distance. Their horses, usually spirited beasts up for a good chase, seemed reluctant, as though they could sense something their riders couldn’t. Still, the boys pressed on, thinking it was a bit odd but not yet spooked. And then, just as they approached the cemetery—now, I’m sure you can see where this is going—the charro in front of them, this silent, stubborn horseman, did the unthinkable. Without breaking stride or pausing for so much as a blink, he went straight through the cemetery gates. And not only that, he didn’t even bother to open them.
Now, any sensible person would stop and think, “Maybe, just maybe, this chap isn’t Don Beto Faz after all.” But at that moment, adrenaline and panic mixed in equal measure, and the young men knew exactly what they had to do: get out of there, pronto. They turned their horses around, no longer focused on dances or music or mischief, but on making it back home in one piece. The horses, having had quite enough of spectral charros for one evening, seemed to agree. They charged back as though all the fiends of folklore were nipping at their heels.
When they finally reached home, there was Don Arturo’s mother, sitting outside with a knowing look. And as soon as she set eyes on them, she said, “It’s true that something appeared to you, isn’t it?” There was no need for the boys to explain, no need for excuses or half-baked stories. She knew, as did they, that they’d encountered something far beyond the everyday troubles of life.
From that day on, those boys learned a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget. They might still saddle up for a bit of fun, but they’d make sure to get permission first. Because, you see, in places like that, where the old ways of the world linger, defying your parents is one thing, but defying the spirit world? Well, that’s just asking for trouble.
But it didn’t end there. Oh no, this ghostly charro had a bit of unfinished business. Because people say that not long after, a young lad by the name of Juan Andrés—son of Don Andrés Loera—had his own encounter with this phantom horseman. Juan Andrés was just 18, fresh-faced, and with the world in front of him. He had all the youthful optimism of a boy his age, perhaps thinking himself immune to the spirits of the night. But one fateful evening, he too saw the charro, and something in him broke. His horse bolted in terror, as horses do when faced with the unnatural, and in his panic, young Juan Andrés lost control. He veered straight into the path of an oncoming truck. His life ended that night, a brief flash of youth extinguished by something no one could explain.
After that, the legend of the ghostly charro became more than a tale told over campfires. It became a warning, a reminder that the past and present are rarely separate in places like this, where the boundary between the living and the dead is thin as a whisper. People whispered of other sightings, other strange occurrences, but as time passed, they began to fade. In the end, Don Arturo summed it up best: “I never go out at night if I don’t go out with someone.”
And can you blame him? In a world where the dead might still roam, where spectral charros ride through cemeteries and haunt the edges of towns, a bit of caution is just common sense. After all, there are ghosts, and then there are ghosts—some of them friendly, some of them stubborn, and some of them dressed in full charro suits, riding into the night as if they’ve got all of eternity to wander.
In-text Citation: (Crispin Terrazas, 2021, p. 59)
