With a Gust of Wind and a Cloud of Dust

It was a typical summer morning in the village of Ponderosa—still, silent, and promising an absolute scorcher. Not the faintest wisp of cloud cover offered any shelter from the fast approaching heat of daylight. No breeze. No birdsong. Not a peep or a movement out of any creature, not even a mouse—which pleased Juan greatly, as it indicated that the rat poison he had set out earlier that week had taken its toll on the rodent population of his grocery store. Feeling enormously self-satisfied he propped the door open to take advantage of the last of the cool air, flipped the sign on the door from the ‘closed’ side to the ‘open’ side, and ordered his nephew Manuel to sweep up the little mouse bodies cluttering the floor.

It was quite early in the morning. No customers were expected for a while yet—Ponderosa was a sleepy village in a very literal sense. Everything indoors and out was calm, quiet, restful.

Suddenly a colossal gust of wind entered the store, knocking items off the shelves and bringing with it a massive cloud of smoke-scented dust. Juan ducked behind the counter. Manuel closed his eyes tightly, thinking it prudent to hide. When the dust began to settle a stranger was standing at the dairy cooler, a very average kind of guy with a somewhat windswept appearance, looking over the contents of the cooler with the eye of a connoisseur.

Juan, upon standing up and sighting the suspicious-looking character, eyed him skeptically. “What do you mean by making such a mess in my grocery store, stranger?”

Manuel cautiously opened an eye. The stranger looked to be human. Manuel opened both eyes and began to relax.

The stranger looked from the cooler to Juan and back again. “Sorry about that. I just wanted to see what dairy products you have here.”

“Oh, we’ve got lots of dairy. Goat milk, cow milk, water buffalo milk, porcupine milk…” Juan continued listing off products, counting on his fingers and giving it a great deal of concentration. The stranger was listening most respectfully. He was also calmly stuffing his jacket with packages of butter.

Manuel noticed the stranger’s activities. He brandished his broom.

Juan noticed the upraised broom and interrupted his list. “Porcupine cheese, whale cheese—Manuel, be nice—goat butter, cow butter…”

Manuel remained still. But his left eyelid twitched in dire warning. The stranger eyed him warily and snatched the very last package of butter. Juan came to the end of his list and noticed the goings on simultaneously. “Water buffalo butter, whale butter and duck butter—Oy! You’d better be planning on paying for all that!”

The stranger looked down his nose airily and drew himself up to his full height—not much over five feet and five inches. “Bah! I am Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed. I do not pay. I TAKE! This village shall rue the day that I arrived!!!”
Manuel lunged at him with the broom, but the criminal vanished.

A cloud of dust appeared on the street outside—there one second, gone the next. The thief had disappeared without a trace.

But there on the dirt-covered floor Juan could see footprints, closely resembling those of a large web-footed waterfowl…

He shuddered with apprehension. “Manuel, go rouse the village, warn every man, woman and child you can find. If that was really and truly Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed then this village is in great peril. He MUST be caught. Waste no time! I’ll lock up the store. …What is it now?... Oh. Yes, by all means, take the broom. You’ll need a good weapon in a pinch.”


Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed!

The name sent chills down the spines of all who heard it. Most simply pretended it was a joke—anything to make believe that it was all a scam, that there was no Euphemio Buenavaca in real life, that the world was safe and at peace.

But there was no escape route for the unfortunate village of Ponderosa. Butter had been stolen. Footprints had been seen. There was no way to hide from the truth, however horrifying it was. Euphemio Buenavaca was a real and very duck-footed and fast-traveling threat, and he must be caught, however risky the prospect.

Manuel ran up and down the streets for hours knocking at doors, trying to communicate to the residents, by a series of rapid and complex mimes, the presence of the notorious criminal. This resulted in most families throwing the coffee grinds at him and advising him, in a rather insensitive tone, to get a job. But he did his best, feeling it his duty to alert the people of the danger they were in, whether they appreciated his efforts or not. And in any case, he thought self-righteously, they wouldn’t be treating him like this when they woke up one morning to find they had no butter in their fridge.

Nonetheless, no one was listening to his urgent warnings. The sun was rising higher. The town was awakening. People walked about, tended their gardens, ran their errands, conversed in the shaded areas beneath various awnings and gazebos, and were blissfully unaware of their peril. Meanwhile, Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed went where he pleased, and stole all the butter he wanted without fear either of discovery or of punishment.


Don Guido Medina was the mayor of Ponderosa, elected to that lofty position by a unanimous vote because he was considered the wisest man in the village by all who lived in it, including himself. Lately, however, he was beginning to doubt his memory. He could have sworn he had just bought butter the previous day—he had wanted it to try and improve the flavor of a somewhat aged slice of chocolate cake—but on this bright sunny morning, he awoke to find his refrigerator strangely butter-free.

Could I have used all of that butter on one slice of cake? He wondered silently… Surely, one slice of cake can’t soak up a pound of butter, and I did buy a pound…

Certain that the butter was hiding from him somewhere, he searched around for it for several minutes, until an unopened box of instant oatmeal fell on his foot and irritated him into believing that yes, he had indeed used an entire pound of butter on one slice of cake, and he would have to simply traipse on down to the grocery store if he planned on eating buttered toast, or buttered oatmeal, or pancakes or waffles or biscuits or any such necessities of fast-breaking on that particular morning. Disgusted with his apparent lack of memory, he shuffled out the door and began making his way to the grocery store, quite a few blocks away.

Suddenly a colossal gust of wind buffeted him, knocking him off balance and setting up a brief cloud of smoke-scented dust. He brushed off his shirt and was about to start complaining when he noticed abruptly that there was no one present to complain too, aside from a few small uncaring children playing in the yard across the street and an odd-looking young man with a broom knocking on a door a few houses away. He sniffed. Too many delinquents in Ponderosa these days. At least this one was looking for a job, but Don Medina couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he was going to do with a broom. Don Medina considered sweeping a very simple chore, one that didn’t merit employment in the least… Still, he thought, doing his utmost to feel less judgmental and a little more open-hearted—Still, it is a beginning.

He wiped a last speck of dust from his shirt and something odd on the ground caught his eye—a footprint, but no normal footprint; indeed, no human one— it was the footprint of a very large and heavy duck!

He stopped dead in his tracks and simply stared. A giant duck? Such a thing had not been heard of in Ponderosa for many years—indeed, Don Medina had been a very small child when the last giant duck was seen, and could neither remember what it looked like nor how it was killed nor even how it had tasted. But the prints on the ground were very real and solid and could not be attributed to the imagination. He stared, narrowed his eyes, unnarrowed them, scratched his head, and continued to stare.

The young man with the broom came walking over. The concerned look on his face turned to shock and then to fear immediately upon sighting the tracks. Don Medina had a feeling that this guy, disreputable though he was, with coffee grinds in his hair and a dead mouse caught in the bristles of his broom, knew something about those tracks that even the wisest man in the village had yet to learn. He decided to forget his pride for a moment and inquire.

“What do you know of these tracks, boy? What’s making them?”

The young man, startled out of his initial shock, stared bug-eyed at the mayor for a moment, and Don Medina began to wonder if the lad was nothing more than a fool after all. But then the coffee-grind-littered delinquent abruptly began what seemed to be a very hyperactive and specialized dance routine, making numerous strange motions with hands and feet and twitching eyelids, rapid and intricate movements, astounding in their originality and skill. Indeed, a lonely albatross standing nearby was quite impressed, and fell in love with him on the spot. But the artfulness of it was lost on Don Guido Medina, and as a method of communication with the said gentleman it failed entirely. He was under the impression that the young man was performing an interpretive dance meant to be done in time with a tape of an auctioneer or something similarly rapid and irrelevant and impossible to decipher. With a sigh of regret mingled with contempt he turned away and began walking down the street. It was probably just another giant duck after all.


Manuel was at a complete loss for what to do next. He knew he must tell Don Medina what had happened, but he had just tried every bit of sign language known to him, and nothing had worked. Both eyelids were twitching very forcefully as the mayor turned away, and he only hoped that they didn’t, heaven forbid, become watery or anything embarrassing like that.

But in his moment of despair, hope appeared at his feet, with great webbed feet and a stick of butter held in her beak as an offering.

Seized by a sudden inspiration, he picked up the rather hefty albatross, wrapped her in his jacket, and intercepted the mayor, pointing meaningfully at the bird. Don Medina was highly perturbed at first but then realization hit him like an anvil falling from the Empire State Building. Webbed feet. Black jacket. Stolen butter. The great feathery creature had dropped the butter and was now more interested in preening the coffee grinds from her hero’s hair, but the original picture was not lost on the mayor this time. It could only mean that Euphemio Buenavaca was in town—there was no doubt remaining. Chills ran up and down his spine.

“….Euphemio Buenavaca?” he asked, already knowing the answer, but dreading it nonetheless.

Manuel pulled several small muscles in his neck nodding the affirmative.

Don Medina immediately took on the air of command that he had been saving for such a time as this. “Then there’s nothing else for it. We must search this town until we find him and when we find him we must shoot him on the spot—he’ll get away if given half a chance. Put that albatross down. Where was he seen last?”

Manuel pointed in the direction of the grocery store, and the search began.


Euphemio Buenavaca was nowhere near the grocery store at that moment. He was, in fact, sitting mostly concealed in the middle branches of a very old and well-grown tree near the picnicking area of Ponderosa’s only park. It was a good stout tree and the resident squirrels seemed to be very considerate and sympathetic—perhaps they saw in him a fellow spirit. Not that Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed cared for them in the least. He was simply hiding there until such a time as he knew what to do next.

From the picnic table closest to his tree, a loud and unfeeling voice reached his ears.

“No, you may NOT have more butter! Good heavens, the impudence I take off you horrid little scamps. There’s no way you’re my children—I was a sensible and well-behaved boy at that age—the doctors pulled a switcheroo on me, I know they did! You there, what’syourname, put that twig down and sit still. … ‘Playing’? What do you mean by ‘playing’? The family of Velasquez does not indulge in ‘playing’! Now sit still and try to act like a gentleman!”

Euphemio Buenavaca raised an eyebrow. Gracious heavens, he thought, with utmost sincerity. I’m glad that’s not my parent.

“You there… what did I name you again? Leave those strawberries alone. They’re for looking at, not eating—you know that! My goodness, the trouble I go through for these ignorant rugrats….”

Such sad-faced little kids, Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed thought to himself. I saw them leaving that enormous over-decorated Victorian-looking residence over to the east of here just half an hour ago, did I not? Having seen it once I can easily find it again—that nasty character with his poor little kids does not deserve butter. No, no, he most certainly does not.

He climbed out of the tree and walked calmly past the picnickers. One particularly small and chubby little girl pointed at his feet and laughed. Completely unruffled, he pointed at her feet and laughed back, stole one of the forbidden strawberries from the table, put it in her hand, and exited the scene with a gust of wind and a small cloud of smoke-scented dust.


Manuel and Don Medina were having precious little luck. At first, they had felt elated and successful simply at sighting footprints of the criminal. But it soon became apparent, as they stood sweating and tired on the west side of town, that footprints were all but useless in searching for a criminal like Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed. There were tracks everywhere—he must have explored the whole town twice over. And the albatross following Manuel about and making her own web-footed tracks was not helping progress.

Don Medina thought hard. Their present course of action had proved entirely useless. It was time for a new one. An idea occurred to him.

“A friend of mine on the opposite side of town will know what to do—Señor Cristobal Velasquez, a very well-educated man. We’ll ask his advice.”


The enormous over-decorated Victorian-looking residence had several different refrigerators, and each one had been well stocked with butter—but no more, thanks to the deft hands and deep jacket pockets of Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed. With his jacket looking more like a huge black pillow wrapped around him, he walked to the door without a care in the world. There was no hurry. By the looks of that picnic, it would be quite a while before the children’s behavior was good enough to merit taking them anywhere beyond the park.

Down the stairs to the front door, chuckling with success, he walked jauntily. Then he opened the door—

And came face to face with Manuel and the broom!

There was a brief moment of stunned silence on both sides. Then Manuel, wasting no time, began whaling the tar out of Euphemio Buenavaca with his broom. Don Medina ducked out of the way, not wanting to become the victim of Manuel’s sudden change of temper. Euphemio Buenavaca struggled manfully to shield his face with his arms, and fought his way desperately out of the door onto the porch. Escaping the broom for a very small second, he took the sliver of opportunity, and disappeared with a gust of wind and a violent smoke-scented dust cloud.


Manuel was highly disappointed. Don Medina was impressed, but also disappointed nonetheless. The albatross was just impressed.

The mayor glanced around the corridor, knowing already, from the presence of the criminal, that Sr. Velasquez was not at home. “A pity we did not catch him, but, as I said, he has the power to escape at the slightest of opportunities. All the same, you put the hurt on him, my boy. Well done that.”

Manuel swelled with pride, but deflated again with a sigh of failure. The albatross gave vent to what she had intended as a comforting noise but sounded more like a very ill frog pleading for help.

Don Medina straightened his posture resolutely. “We will not give up. He is wounded probably—demoralized certainly—but I am sure he will return, if not for revenge then for some other purpose. The search will go on. I am not sure but I have a feeling that Sr. Velasquez is somewhere in the general vicinity of the village park.”



Evening fell. Euphemio Buenavaca was indeed demoralized, not to mention traumatized. He was walking dejectedly on the furthest outskirts of town, eyes on the ground, trying to forget the shamed and terrified feeling of being beaten with a broom which held a dead mouse in its bristles.

Señora Perfecta was poor, but she was a compassionate soul nonetheless, and the sight of a downtrodden duck-footed man devoid of happiness walking past her yard stirred her to pity. “You there. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Euphemio Buenavaca was startled by the sudden kind voice. A little old lady—somebody’s favorite grandmother, he supposed—was offering him a cup of coffee. He had not had coffee all day. He accepted the offer and promptly inhaled the coffee.

Sra. Perfecta was astounded. “Good heavens. You’ll eat us out of house and home. All the same, you must share what we have. Poor lad. And I have no butter to offer you!”

He started. “…No butter?”

“No, no. We can only afford butter every other month or so, and we have none at the moment. Ah, it is a shame, it is—but we do well enough. It just makes for disappointed company.”

No butter!


Hours later he was sitting on the floor in the sad little house of the Perfecta family, shaking. Supper had been quite passable… although frugal, and entirely lacking butter. No butter. His palms and forehead broke out in a cold sweat and memories swept in on him like waves on a shore… years ago, in the village of Pomeroy, some class clown had made a joke about the mayor having animal feet. The mayor had stopped shipments of butter unloading anywhere in the village. The Great Butter Deprivation, they had called it. Only the mayor had access to butter… to all others it was forbidden. For two entire years the village had struggled on like that—no butter. No buttered toast, no butter on pancakes or waffles or potatoes or corn or cake or anything at all. Only he, Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed, had survived. He gnawed his fingernails, feeling again that sudden urge to seize butter, wherever it was, however illegal the action would be—to seize it, to hold it in his hands, to know without a doubt that he had butter available and that it wasn’t going to run out ever again…

Flashbacks of life without butter plagued his sleep. Nightmares haunted him throughout the night as visions of toast without butter danced through his head. He woke early in the morning, a good fifteen minutes before dawn, and slunk into the mostly empty little kitchen, knowing what he must do.


Sra. Perfecta was weeding her garden when a small crowd of armed men appeared at her yard fence.

“What do you want here?”

“There is a dangerous criminal somewhere in this area—Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed, stealer of butter. You have seen him, have you not?”

Well, now that she thought about it, her odd guest did indeed have the feet of a duck. She had not thought much of it, being a generous and tolerant lady who believed that it took all kinds to make a world. But it seemed that honesty was required here. They were, after all, armed.

“Yes, I have seen him, but I was unaware that he was a criminal. I will bring him out to you.”



“Duck-footed lad—you’re wanted outside. I do believe you’ve been caught.”

Euphemio Buenavaca turned nervously. “Is there another way out of here?”

Sra. Perfecta shook her head, but smiled. “There is none. But you will find an escape route nonetheless. You have luck and skill—use it! Now hurry or you’ll miss your cue.”


The crowd went still when Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed walked out to meet them. Don Medina had told them beforehand to simply shoot him on sight, but now, having actually seen the man with his commonplace looks and his large webbed feet, neither Don Medina nor Sr. Velasquez nor Manuel nor anyone else could fire a shot, not even Juan. The albatross looked impatient, but said nothing.

Don Medina took it on himself to speak first.

“Señor, you have traveled wide in your life, depriving people of butter all around the seven seas. But now you are caught, and I can tell you with certainty that your butter-thieving days are over—indeed, your days in general are over, as we all know of your guilt and there is no need for any kind of trial before we give you the justice that you deserve. On that note, have you any last words?”

Euphemio Buenavaca thought for a moment—he thought of Juan and his cruel poisoning of the mice—he thought of Sr. Cristobal Velasquez forbidding his children even a moment’s worth of harmless play—he thought of Sra. Perfecta, unable to afford butter more than once every few months. Raising his eyes to meet those of Don Medina, who was at least half a foot taller than himself, he spoke.

“I do not deny that I have liberated many pounds of butter in my lifetime—but neither do I feel any guilt. You seem not to know me. I will remind you just who I am.”

His voice rose in forcefulness and volume as he approached them fearlessly. “I am Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed. I run, I steal, I redistribute, and you and your silly little brooms and albatrosses and firearms have no power to stop me! For I am Euphemio Buenavaca the duck-footed, here one nanosecond—and gone the next!”

With a colossal gust of wind and a massive cloud of smoke-scented dust, he was gone.


Sra. Perfecta was somewhat perturbed at discovering her refrigerator filled to the brim with pounds of squishy butter, but she understood the kindness of the gesture, and was not at all ungrateful to her short duck-footed benefactor.