Of all of Néstor’s abuela’s stories, the tale of the Spanish count’s buried silver paled in comparison to that of El Cuco, cloaked and carrying a child’s severed head in the crook of his arm. When the children of the rancho settled around Abuela’s feet in a crescent of devout supplicants, they begged for La Llorona’s wails or the long talons of La Lechuza, not the tale of a well-heeled Spaniard perishing of exhaustion in the chaparral.
