The Underdogs by Mariano Azuela

The Underdogs
by Mariano Azuela
Mariano Azuela, the first of the "novelists of the Revolution,"
was born in Lagos de Moreno, Jalisco, Mexico, in 1873. He
studied medicine in Guadalajara and returned to Lagos in 1909,
where he began the practice of his profession. He began his
writing career early; in 1896 he published Impressions of a Student
in a weekly of Mexico City. This was followed by numerous
sketches and short stories, and in 1911 by his first novel,
Andres Perez, maderista.
Like most of the young Liberals, he supported Francisco I.
Madero's uprising, which overthrew the dictatorship of Porfirio
Diaz, and in 1911 was made Director of Education of the State
of Jalisco. After Madero's assassination, he joined the army of
Pancho Villa as doctor, and his knowledge of the Revolution
was acquired at firsthand. When the counterrevolutionary
forces of Victoriano Huerta were temporarily triumphant, he
emigrated to El Paso, Texas, where in 1915 he wrote The Underdogs
(Los de abajo), which did not receive general recognition
until 1924, when it was hailed as the novel of the Revolution.
But Azuela was fundamentally a moralist, and his disappointment
with the Revolution soon began to manifest itself. He had
fought for a better Mexico; but he saw that while the Revolution
had corrected certain injustices, it had given rise to others
equally deplorable. When he saw the self-servers and the unprincipled
turning his hopes for the redemption of the underprivileged
of his country into a ladder to serve their own ends,
his disillusionment was deep and often bitter. His later novels
are marred at times by a savage sarcasm
During his later years, and until his death in 1952, he lived in
Mexico City writing and practicing his profession among the
poor.
The Underdogs
by Mariano Azuela
A Novel of the Mexican Revolution
Translated by E. Munguia, Jr.
Original Title: LOS DE ABAJO
PART ONE
"How beautiful the revolution!
Even in its most barbarous aspect it is beautiful,"
Solis said with deep feeling.
I
That's no animal, I tell you! Listen to the dog barking!
It must be a human being."
The woman stared into the darkness of the sierra.
"What if they're soldiers?" said a man, who sat Indian-
fashion, eating, a coarse earthenware plate in his
right hand, three folded tortillas in the other.
The woman made no answer, all her senses directed
outside the hut. The beat of horses' hoofs rang in the
quarry nearby. The dog barked again, louder and more
angrily.
"Well, Demetrio, I think you had better hide, all the
same."
Stolidly, the man finished eating; next he reached for
a cantaro and gulped down the water in it; then he
stood up.
"Your rifle is under the mat," she whispered.
A tallow candle illumined the small room. In one corner
stood a plow, a yoke, a goad, and other agricultural
implements. Ropes hung from the roof, securing an old
adobe mold, used as a bed; on it a child slept, covered
with gray rags.
Demetrio buckled his cartridge belt about his waist
and picked up his rifle. He was tall and well built, with a
sanguine face and beardless chin; he wore shirt and
trousers of white cloth, a broad Mexican hat and leather
sandals.
With slow, measured step, he left the room, vanishing
into the impenetrable darkness of the night.
The dog, excited to the point of madness, had jumped
over the corral fence.
Suddenly a shot rang out. The dog moaned, then
barked no more. Some men on horseback rode up, shouting
and sweating; two of them dismounted, while the
other hung back to watch the horses.
"Hey, there, woman: we want food! Give us eggs,
milk, beans, anything you've got! We're starving!"
"Curse the sierra! It would take the Devil himself
not to lose his way!"
"Guess again, Sergeant! Even the Devil would go
astray if he were as drunk as you are."
The first speaker wore chevrons on his arm, the other
red stripes on his shoulders.
"Whose place is this, old woman? Or is it an empty
house? God's truth, which is it?"
"Of course it's not empty. How about the light and
that child there? Look here, confound it, we want to
eat, and damn quick tool Are you coming out or are we
going to make you?"
"You swine! Both of you! You've gone and killed my
dog, that's what you've done! What harm did he ever do
you? What did you have against him?"
The woman reentered the house, dragging the dog behind
her, very white and fat, with lifeless eyes and flabby
body.
"Look at those cheeks, Sergeant! Don't get riled, light
of my life: I swear I'll turn your home into a dovecot,
see?"
"By God!" he said, breaking off into song:
"Don't look so haughty, dear,
Banish all fears,
Kiss me and melt to me,
I'll drink up your tears!"
His alcoholic tenor trailed off into the night.
"Tell me what they call this ranch, woman?" the sergeant
asked.
"Limon," the woman replied curtly, carrying wood to
the fire and fanning the coals.
"So we're in Limon, eh, the famous Demetrio Macias'
country, eh? Do you hear that, Lieutenant? We're in
Limon."
"Limon? What the hell do I care? If I'm bound for
hell, Sergeant, I might as well go there now. I don't
mind, now that I've found as good a remount as this!
Look at the cheeks on the darling, look at them! There's
a pair of ripe red apples for a fellow to bite into!"
"I'll wager you know Macias the bandit, lady? I was
in the pen with him at Escobedo, once."
"Bring me a bottle of tequila, Sergeant: I've decided
to spend the night with this charming lady. . . . What's
that? The colonel? . . . Why in God's name talk about
the colonel now? He can go straight to hell, for all I
care. And if he doesn't like it, it's all right with me. Come
on, Sergeant, tell the corporal outside to unsaddle the
horses and feed them. I'll stay here all night. Here, my
girl, you let the sergeant fry the eggs and warm up the
tortillas; you come here to me. See this wallet full of nice
new bills? They're all for you, darling. Sure, I want you
to have them. Figure it out for yourself. I'm drunk, see:
I've a bit of a load on and that's why I'm kind of hoarse,
you might call it. I left half my gullet down Guadalajara
way, and I've been spitting the other half out all the way
up here. Oh well, who cares? But I want you to have that
money, see, dearie? Hey, Sergeant, where's my bottle?
Now, little girl, come here and pour yourself a drink.
You won't, eh? Aw, come on! Afraid of your--er--husband
. . . or whatever he is, huh? Well, if he's skulking in
some hole, you tell him to come out. What the hell do I
care? I'm not scared of rats, see!"
Suddenly a white shadow loomed on the threshold.
"Demetrio Macias!" the sergeant cried as he stepped
back in terror.
The lieutenant stood up, silent, cold and motionless
as a statue.
"Shoot them!" the woman croaked.
"Oh, come, you'll surely spare us! I didn't know you
were there. I'll always stand up for a brave man."
Demetrio stood his ground, looking them up and down,
an insolent and disdainful smile wrinkling his face.
"Yes, I not only respect brave men, but I like them.
I'm proud and happy to call them friends. Here's my
hand on it: friend to friend." Then, after a pause: "All
right, Demetrio Macias, if you don't want to shake
hands, all right! But it's because you don't know me,
that's why, just because the first time you saw me I was
doing this dog's job. But look here, I ask you, what in
God's name can a man do when he's poor and has a
wife to support and kids? . . . Right you are, Sergeant,
let's go: I've nothing but respect for the home of what I
call a brave man, a real, honest, genuine man!"
When they had gone, the woman drew close to
Demetrio.
"Holy Virgin, what agony! I suffered as though it was
you they'd shot."
"You go to father's house, quick!" Demetrio ordered.
She wanted to hold him in her arms; she entreated, she
wept. But he pushed away from her gently and, in a sullen
voice, said, "I've an idea the whole lot of them are coming."
"Why didn't you kill 'em?"
"Their hour hasn't struck yet."
They went out together; she bore the child in her
arms. At the door, they separated, moving off in different
directions.
The moon peopled the mountain with vague shadows.
As he advanced at every turn of his way Demetrio could
see the poignant, sharp silhouette of a woman pushing
forward painfully, bearing a child in her arms.
When, after many hours of climbing, he gazed back,
huge flames shot up from the depths of the canyon by
the river. It was his house, blazing. . . .
II
Everything was still swathed in shadows as
Demetrio Macias began his descent to the bottom of
the ravine. Between rocks striped with huge eroded
cracks, and a squarely cut wall, with the river flowing
below, a narrow ledge along the steep incline served as a
mountain trail.
"They'll surely find me now and track us down like
dogs," he mused. "It's a good thing they know nothing
about the trails and paths up here. . . . But if they got
someone from Moyahua to guide them . . ." He left the
sinister thought unfinished. "All the men from Limon or
Santa Rosa or the other nearby ranches are on our side:
they wouldn't try to trail us. That cacique who's chased
and run me ragged over these hills, is at Mohayua now;
he'd give his eyeteeth to see me dangling from a telegraph
pole with my tongue hanging out of my mouth, purple
and swollen. . . ."
At dawn, he approached the pit of the canyon. Here,
he lay on the rocks and fell asleep.
The river crept along, murmuring as the waters rose
and fell in small cascades. Birds sang lyrically from their
hiding among the pitaya trees. The monotonous, eternal
drone of insects filled the rocky solitude with mystery.
Demetrio awoke with a start. He waded the river, following
its course which ran counter to the canyon; he
climbed the crags laboriously as an ant, gripping root and
rock with his hands, clutching every stone in the trail
with his bare feet.
When he reached the summit, he glanced down to
see the sun steeping the valley in a lake of gold. Near the
canyon, enormous rocks loomed protrudent, like fantastic
Negro skulls. The pitaya trees rose tenuous, tall, like the
tapering, gnarled fingers of a giant; other trees of all sorts
bowed their crests toward the pit of the abyss. Amid
the stark rocks and dry branches, roses bloomed like a
white offering to the sun as smoothly, suavely, it unraveled
its golden threads, one by one, from rock to rock.
Demetrio stopped at the summit. Reaching backward,
with his right arm he drew his horn which hung at his
back, held it up to his thick lips, and, swelling his cheeks
out, blew three loud blasts. From across the hill close by,
three sharp whistles answered his signal.
In the distance, from a conical heap of reeds and dry
straws, man after man emerged, one after the other, their
legs and chests naked, lambent and dark as old bronze.
They rushed forward to greet Demetrio, and stopped before
him, askance.
"They've burnt my house," he said.
A murmur of oaths, imprecations, and threats rose
among them.
Demetrio let their anger run its course. Then he drew
a bottle from under his shirt and took a deep swig;
then he wiped the neck of the bottle with the back of his
hand and passed it around. It passed from mouth to
mouth; not a drop was left. The men passed their tongues
greedily over their lips to recapture the tang of the liquor.
"Glory be to God and by His Will," said Demetrio,
"tonight or tomorrow at the latest we'll meet the Federals.
What do you say, boys, shall we let them find their way
about these trails?"
The ragged crew jumped to their feet, uttering shrill
cries of joy; then their jubilation tamed sinister and they
gave vent to threats, oaths and imprecations.
"Of course, we can't ten how strong they are," said
Demetrio as his glance traveled over their faces in
scrutiny.
"Do you remember Medina? Out there at Hostotipaquillo,
he only had a half a dozen men with knives
that they sharpened on a grindstone. Well, he held back
the soldiers and the police, didn't he? And he beat them,
too."
"We're every bit as good as Medina's crowd!" said a
tall, broad-shouldered man with a black beard and bushy
eyebrows.
"By God, if I don't own a Mauser and a lot of cartridges,
if I can't get a pair of trousers and shoes, then
my name's not Anastasio Montanez! Look here, Quail,
you don't believe it, do you? You ask my partner
Demetrio if I haven't half a dozen bullets in me already.
Christ! Bullets are marbles to me! And I dare you to
contradict me!"
"Viva Anastasio Montanez," shouted Manteca.
"All right, all right!" said Montanez. "Viva Demetrio
Macias, our chief, and long life to God in His heaven
and to the Virgin Mary."
"Viva Demetrio Macias," they all shouted.
They gathered dry brush and wood, built a fire and
placed chunks of fresh meat upon the burning coals. As
the blaze rose, they collected about the fire, sat down Indian-
fashion and inhaled the odor of the meat as it twisted
on the crackling fire. The rays of the sun, falling about
them, cast a golden radiance over the bloody hide of a
calf, lying on the ground nearby. The meat dangled from a
rope fastened to a huizache tree, to dry in the sun and
wind.
"Well, men," Demetrio said, "you know we've only
twenty rifles, besides my thirty-thirty. If there are just a
few of them, we'll shoot until there's not a live man left.
If there's a lot of 'em, we can give 'em a good scare, anyhow."
He undid a rag belt about his waist, loosened a knot
in it and offered the contents to his companions. Salt. A
murmur of approbation rose among them as each took a
few grains between the tips of his fingers.
They ate voraciously; then, glutted, lay down on the
ground, facing the sky. They sang monotonous, sad
songs, uttering a strident shout after each stanza.
III
In the brush and foliage of the sierra, Demetrio Macias
and his threescore men slept until the halloo of the horn,
blown by Pancracio from the crest of a peak, awakened
them.
"Time, boys! Look around and see what's what!"
Anastasio Montanez said, examining his rifle springs.
Yet he was previous; an hour or more elapsed with no
sound or stir save the song of the locust in the brush or
the frog stirring in his mudhole. At last, when the ultimate
faint rays of the moon were spent in the rosy dimness
of the dawn, the silhouette of a soldier loomed at the
end of the trail. As they strained their eyes, they could
distinguish others behind him, ten, twenty, a hundred.
. . . Then, suddenly, darkness swallowed them up. Only
when the sun rose, Demetrio's band realized that the
canyon was alive with men, midgets seated on miniature
horses.
"Look at 'em, will you?" said Pancracio. "Pretty, ain't
they? Come on, boys, let's go and roll marbles with 'em."
Now the moving dwarf figures were lost in the dense
chaparral, now they reappeared, stark and black against
the ocher. The voices of officers, as they gave orders, and
soldiers, marching at ease, were clearly audible.
Demetrio raised his hand; the locks of rifles clicked.
"Fire!" he cried tensely.
Twenty-one men shot as one; twenty-one soldiers fell
off their horses. Caught by surprise, the column halted,
etched like bas-reliefs in stone against the rocks.
Another volley and a score of soldiers hurtled down
from rock to rock.
"Come out, bandits. Come out, you starved dogs!"
"To bell with you, you corn rustlers!"
"Kill the cattle thieves! Kill 'em!
The soldiers shouted defiance to their enemies; the latter,
giving proof of a marksmanship which had already
made them famous, were content to keep under cover,
quiet, mute.
"Look, Pancracio," said Meco, completely black save
for his eyes and teeth. "This is for that man who passes
that tree. I'll get the son of a . . ."
"Take that! Right in the head. You saw it, didn't you,
mate? Now, this is for the fellow on the roan horse.
Down you come, you shave-headed bastard!"
"I'll give that lad on the trail's edge a shower of lead.
If you don't hit the river, I'm a liar! Now: look at him!"
"Oh, come on, Anastasio don't be cruel; lend me your
rifle. Come along, one shot, just one!"
Manteca and Quail, unarmed, begged for a gun as a
boon, imploring permission to fire at least a shot apiece.
"Come out of your holes if you've got any guts!"
"Show your faces, you lousy cowards!"
From peak to peak, the shouts rang as distinctly as
though uttered across a street. Suddenly, Quail stood up,
naked, holding his trousers to windward as though he
were a bullfighter flaunting a red cape, and the soldiers
below the bull. A shower of shots peppered upon
Demetrio's men.
"God! That was like a hornet's nest buzzing overhead,"
said Anastasio Montanez, lying flat on the ground
without daring to wink an eye.
"Here, Quail, you son of a bitch, you stay where I
told you," roared Demetrio.
They crawled to take new positions. The soldiers, congratulating
themselves on their successes, ceased firing
when another volley roused them.
"More coming!" they shouted.
Some, panic-stricken, turned their horses back; others,
abandoning their mounts, began to climb up the mountain
and seek shelter behind the rocks. The officers had
to shoot at them to enforce discipline.
"Down there, down there!" said Demetrio as he leveled
his rifle at the translucent thread of the river.
A soldier fell into the water; at each shot, invariably
a soldier bit the dust. Only Demetrio was shooting in that
direction; for every soldier killed, ten or twenty of them,
intact, climbed afresh on the other side.
"Get those coming up from under! Los de Abajo!
Get the underdogs!" be screamed.
Now his fellows were exchanging rifles, laughing and
making wagers on their marksmanship.
"My leather belt if I miss that head there, on the black
horse! "
"Lend me your rifle, Meco."
"Twenty Mauser cartridges and a half yard of sausage
if you let me spill that lad riding the bay mare. All right!
Watch me.... There! See him jump! Like a bloody deer."
"Don't run, you half-breeds. Come along with you!
Come and meet Father Demetrio!"
Now it was Demetrio's men who screamed insults.
Manteca, his smooth face swollen in exertion, yelled his
lungs out. Pancracio roared, the veins and muscles in his
neck dilated, his murderous eyes narrowed to two evil
slits.
Demetrio fired shot after shot, constantly warning his
men of impending danger, but they took no heed until
they felt the bullets spattering them from one side.
"Goddamn their souls, they've branded me!" Demetrio
cried, his teeth flashing.
Then, very swiftly, he slid down a gully and was lost....
IV
Two men were missing, Serapio the candymaker, and
Antonio, who played the cymbals in the Juchipila band.
"Maybe they'll join us further on," said Demetrio.
The return journey proved moody. Anastasio Montanez
alone preserved his equanimity, a kindly expression playing
in his sleepy eyes and on his bearded face. Pancracio's
harsh, gorillalike profile retained its repulsive immutability.
The soldiers had retreated; Demetrio began the search
for the soldiers' horses which had been hidden in the
sierra.
Suddenly Quail, who had been walking ahead, shrieked.
He had caught sight of his companions swinging from
the branches of a mesquite. There could be no doubt of
their identity; Serapio and Antonio they certainly were.
Anastasio Montanez prayed brokenly.
"Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy
name. Thy kingdom come..."
"Amen," his men answered in low tones, their heads
bowed, their hats upon their breasts. . . .
Then, hurriedly, they took the Juchipila canyon northward,
without halting to rest until nightfall.
Quail kept walking close to Anastasio unable to
banish from his mind the two who were hanged, their
dislocated limp necks, their dangling legs, their arms
pendulous, and their bodies moving slowly in the wind.
On the morrow, Demetrio complained bitterly of his
wound; he could no longer ride on horseback. They were
forced to carry him the rest of the way on a makeshift
stretcher of leaves and branches.
"He's bleeding frightfully," said Anastasio Montanez,
tearing off one of his shirt-sleeves and tying it tightly
about Demetrio's thigh, a little above the wound.
"That's good," said Venancio. "It'll keep him from
bleeding and stop the pain."
Venancio was a barber. In his native town, he pulled
teeth and fulfilled the office of medicine man. He was
accorded an unimpeachable authority because he had
read The Wandering Jew and one or two other books.
They called him "Doctor"; and since he was conceited
about his knowledge, he employed very few words.
They took turns, carrying the stretcher in relays of
four over the bare stony mesa and up the steep passes.
At high noon, when the reflection of the sun on the
calcareous soil burned their shoulders and made the
landscape dimly waver before their eyes, the monotonous,
rhythmical moan of the wounded rose in unison
with the ceaseless cry of the locusts. They stopped to rest
at every small hut they found hidden between the steep,
jagged rocks.
"Thank God, a kind soul and tortillas full of beans and
chili are never lacking," Anastasio Montanez said with
a triumphant belch.
The mountaineers would shake calloused hands with
the travelers, saying:
"God's blessing on you! He will find a way to help you
all, never fear. We're going ourselves, starting tomorrow
morning. We're dodging the draft, with those damned
Government people who've declared war to the death on
us, on all the poor. They come and steal our pigs, our
chickens and com, they bum our homes and carry our
women off, and if they ever get hold of us they'll kill us
like mad dogs, and we die right there on the spot and
that's the end of the story!"
At sunset, amid the flames dyeing the sky with vivid,
variegated colors, they descried a group of houses up
in the heart of the blue mountains. Demetrio ordered
them to carry him there.
These proved to be a few wretched straw huts, dispersed
all over the river slopes, between rows of young
sprouting corn and beans. They lowered the stretcher
and Demetrio, in a weak voice, asked for a glass of
water.
Groups of squalid Indians sat in the dark pits of the
huts, men with bony chests, disheveled, matted hair,
and ruddy cheeks; behind them, eyes shone up from
floors of fresh reeds.
A child with a large belly and glossy dark skin came
close to the stretcher to inspect the wounded man. An
old woman followed, and soon all of them drew about
Demetrio in a circle.
A girl sympathizing with him in his plight brought a
jicara of bluish water. With hands shaking, Demetrio took
it up and drank greedily.
"Will you have some more?"
He raised his eyes and glanced at the girl, whose
features were common but whose voice had a note of
kindness in it. Wiping his sweating brow with the back of
his palm and turning on one side, he gasped:
"May God reward you."
Then his whole body shook, making the leaves of the
stretcher rustle. Fever possessed him; he fainted.
"It's a damp night and that's terrible for the fever,"
said Remigia, an old wrinkled barefooted woman, wearing
a cloth rag for a blouse.
She invited them to move Demetrio into her hut.
Pancracio, Anastasio Montanez, and Quail lay down
beside the stretcher like faithful dogs, watchful of their
master's wishes. The rest scattered about in search of
food.
Remigia offered them all she had, chili and tortillas.
"Imagine! I had eggs, chickens, even a goat and her
kid, but those damn soldiers wiped me out clean."
Then, making a trumpet of her hands, she drew near
Anastasio and murmured in his ear:
"Imagine, they even carried away Senora Nieves'
little girl!"
V
Suddenly awakening, Quail opened his eyes and
stood up.
"Montanez, did you hear? A shot, Montanez! Hey,
Montanez, get up!"
He shook him vigorously until Montanez ceased
snoring and in turn woke up.
"What in the name of . . . Now you're at it again,
damn it. I tell you there aren't ghosts any more," Anastasio
muttered out of a half-sleep.
"I heard a shot, Montanez!"
"Go back to sleep, Quail, or I'll bust your nose."
"Hell, Anastasio I tell you it's no nightmare. I've forgotten
those fellows they hung, honest. It's a shot, I tell
you. I heard it all right."
"A shot, you say? All right, then, hand me my gun."
Anastasio Montanez rubbed his eyes, stretched out his
arms and legs, and stood up lazily.
They left the hut. The sky was solid with stars; the
moon rose like a sharp scythe. The confused rumor of
women crying in fright resounded from the various huts;
the men who had been sleeping in the open, also woke up
and the rattle of arms echoed over the mountain.
"You cursed fool, you've maimed me for life."
A voice rang clearly through the darkness.
"Who goes there?"
The shout echoed from rock to rock, through mound
and over hollow, until it spent itself at the far, silent
reaches of the night.
"Who goes there?" Anastasio repeated his challenge
louder, pulling back the lock of his Mauser.
"One of Demetrio's men," came the answer.
"It's Pancracio," Quail cried joyfully. Relieved, he rested
the butt of his rifle on the ground.
Pancracio appeared, holding a young man by the arms;
the newcomer was covered with dust from his felt hat to
his coarse shoes. A fresh bloodstain lay on his trousers
close to the heel.
"Who's this tenderfoot?" Anastasio demanded.
"You know I'm on guard around here. Well, I hears a
noise in the brush, see, and I shouts, 'Who goes there?'
and then this lad answers, 'Carranza! Carranza!' I don't
know anyone by that name, and so I says, 'Carranza,
hell!' and I just pumps a bit of lead into his hoof."
Smiling, Pancracio turned his beardless head around as
if soliciting applause.
Then the stranger spoke:
"Who's your commander?"
Proudly, Anastasio raised his head, went up to him
and looked him in the face. The stranger lowered his tone
considerably.
"Well, I'm a revolutionist, too, you know. The Government
drafted me and I served as a private, but I managed
to desert during the battle the day before yesterday,
and I've been walking about in search of you all."
"So he's a Government soldier, eh?" A murmur of incredulity
rose from the men, interrupting the stranger.
"So that's what you are, eh? One of those damn halfbreeds,"
said Anastasio Montanez. "Why the hell didn't
you pump your lead in his brain, Pancracio?"
"What's he talking about, anyhow? I can't make head
nor tail of it. He says he wants to see Demetrio and that
he's got plenty to say to him. But that's all right: we've
got plenty of time to do anything we damn well please so
long as you're in no hurry, that's all," said Pancracio,
loading his gun.
"What kind of beasts are you?" the prisoner cried.
He could say no more: Anastasio's fist, crashing down
upon his face, sent his head turning on his neck, covered
with blood.
"Shoot the half-breed!"
"Hang him!"
"Bum him alive; he's a lousy Federal."
In great excitement, they yelled and shrieked and were
about to fire at the prisoner.
"Sssh! Shut up! I think Demetrio's talking now," Anastasio
said, striving to quiet them. Indeed, Demetrio,
having ascertained the cause of the turmoil, ordered them
to bring the prisoner before him.
"It's positively infamous, senor; look," Luis Cervantes
said, pointing to the bloodstains on his trousers and to his
bleeding face.
"All right, all right. But who in hell are you? That's
what I want to know," Demetrio said.
"My name is Luis Cervantes, sir. I'm a medical student
and a journalist. I wrote a piece in favor of the
revolution, you see; as a result, they persecuted me,
caught me, and finally landed me in the barracks."
His ensuing narrative was couched in terms of such
detail and expressed in terms so melodramatic that it
drew guffaws of mirth from Pancracio and Manteca.
"All I've tried to do is to make myself clear on this
point. I want you to be convinced that I am truly
one of your coreligionists. . . ."
"What's that? What did you say? Car . . . what?"
Demetrio asked, bringing his ear close to Cervantes.
"Coreligionist, sir, that is to say, a person who possesses
the same religion, who is inspired by the same ideals,
who defends and fights for the same cause you are now
fighting for."
Demetrio smiled:
"What are we fighting for? That's what I'd like to
know."
In his disconcertment, Luis Cervantes could find no
reply.
"Look at that mug, look at 'im! Why waste any time,
Demetrio? Let's shoot him," Pancracio urged impatiently.
Demetrio laid a hand on his hair which covered his
ears, and stretching himself out for a long time, seemed to
be lost in thought. Having found no solution, he said:
"Get out, all of you; it's aching again. Anastasio put
out the candle. Lock him up in the corral and let Pancracio
and Manteca watch him. Tomorrow, we'll see.
VI
Through the shadows of the starry night, Luis Cervantes
had not yet managed to detect the exact shape of
the objects about him. Seeking the most suitable restingplace,
he laid his weary bones down on a fresh pile of
manure under the blurred mass of a huizache tree. He
lay down, more exhausted than resigned, and closed his
eyes, resolutely determined to sleep until his fierce keepers
or the morning sun, burning his ears, awakened him.
Something vaguely like warmth at his side, then a tired
hoarse breath, made him shudder. He opened his eyes
and feeling about him with his hands, he sensed the
coarse hairs of a large pig which, resenting the presence of
a neighbor, began to grunt.
All Luis' efforts to sleep proved quite useless, not
only because the pain of his wound or the bruises on his
flesh smarted, but because he suddenly realized the
exact nature of his failure.
Yes, failure! For he had never learned to appreciate
exactly the difference between fulminating sentences of
death upon bandits in the columns of a small country
newspaper and actually setting out in search of them,
and tracking them to their lairs, gun in hand. During his
first day's march as volunteer lieutenant, he had begun to
suspect the error of his ways--a brutal sixty miles'
journey it was, that left his hips and legs one mass of
raw soreness and soldered all his bones together. A week
later, after his first skirmish against the rebels, he understood
every rule of the game. Luis Cervantes would have
taken up a crucifix and solemnly sworn that as soon as
the soldiers, gun in hand, stood ready to shoot, some profoundly
eloquent voice had spoken behind them, saying,
"Run for your lives." It was all crystal clear. Even his
noble-spirited horse, accustomed to battle, sought to
sweep back on its hind legs and gallop furiously away,
to stop only at a safe distance from the sound of firing.
The sun was setting, the mountain became peopled with
vague and restless shadows, darkness scaled the ramparts
of the mountain hastily. What could be more logical
then, than to seek refuge behind the rocks and attempt
to sleep, granting mind and body a sorely needed
rest?
But the soldier's logic is the logic of absurdity. On the
morrow, for example, his colonel awakened him rudely
out of his sleep, cuffing and belaboring him unmercifully,
and, after having bashed in his face, deprived him
of his place of vantage. The rest of the officers, moreover,
burst into hilarious mirth and holding their sides with
laughter begged the colonel to pardon the deserter. The
colonel, therefore, instead of sentencing him to be shot,
kicked his buttocks roundly for him and assigned him to
kitchen police.
This signal insult was destined to bear poisonous
fruit. Luis Cervantes determined to play turncoat; indeed,
mentally, he had already changed sides. Did not
the sufferings of the underdogs, of the disinherited
masses, move him to the core? Henceforth he espoused
the cause of Demos, of the subjugated, the beaten and
baffled, who implore justice, and justice alone. He became
intimate with the humblest private. More, even, he
shed tears of compassion over a dead mule which fell,
load and all, after a terribly long journey.
From then on, Luis Cervantes' prestige with the soldiers
increased. Some actually dared to make confessions.
One among them, conspicuous for his sobriety
and silence, told him: "I'm a carpenter by trade, you
know. I had a mother, an old woman nailed to her chair
for ten years by rheumatism. In the middle of the night,
they pulled me out of my house; three damn policemen;
I woke up a soldier twenty-five miles away from my
hometown. A month ago our company passed by there
again. My mother was already under the sod! . . . So
there's nothing left for me in this wide world; no one
misses me now, you see. But, by God, I'm damned if I'll
use these cartridges they make us carry, against the
enemy. If a miracle happens (I pray for it every night,
you know, and I guess our Lady of Guadalupe can do
it all right), then I'll join Villa's men; and I swear by the
holy soul of my old mother, that I'll make every one of
these Government people pay, by God I will."
Another soldier, a bright young fellow, but a charlatan,
at heart, who drank habitually and smoked the narcotic
marihuana weed, eyeing him with vague, glassy stare,
whispered in his ear, "You know, partner . . . the men
on the other side ... you know, the other side . . . you
understand . . . they ride the best horses up north there,
and all over, see? And they harness their mounts with
pure hammered silver. But us? Oh hell, we've got to ride
plugs, that's all, and not one of them good enough to
stagger round a water well. You see, don't you, partner?
You see what I mean? You know, the men on the other
side-they get shiny new silver coins while we get only
lousy paper money printed in that murderer's factory,
that's what we get, yes, that's ours, I tell you!"
The majority of the soldiers spoke in much the same
tenor. Even a top sergeant candidly confessed, "Yes, I
enlisted all right. I wanted to. But, by God, I missed the
right side by a long shot. What you can't make in a lifetime,
sweating like a mule and breaking your back in
peacetime, damn it all, you can make in a few months
just running around the sierra with a gun on your back,
but not with this crowd, dearie, not with this lousy
outfit ...."
Luis Cervantes, who already shared this hidden, implacably
mortal hatred of the upper classes, of his officers,
and of his superiors, felt that a veil had been removed
from his eyes; clearly, now, he saw the final outcome
of the struggle. And yet what had happened? The
first moment he was able to join his coreligionists, instead
of welcoming him with open arms, they threw him
into a pigsty with swine for company.
Day broke. The roosters crowed in the huts. The
chickens perched in the huizache began to stretch their
wings, shake their feathers, and fly down to the ground.
Luis Cervantes saw his guards lying on top of a dung
heap, snoring. In his imagination, he reviewed the features
of last night's men. One, Pancracio, was pockmarked,
blotchy, unshaven; his chin protruded, his
forehead receded obliquely; his ears formed one solid
piece with head and neck--a horrible man. The other,
Manteca, was so much human refuse; his eyes were almost
hidden, his look sullen; his wiry straight hair fen
over his ears, forehead and neck; his scrofulous lips
hung eternally agape. Once more, Luis Cervantes felt
his flesh quiver.
VII
Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand through his ruffled
hair, which hung over his moist forehead, pushed it
back over his ears, and opened his eyes.
Distinctly he heard the woman's melodious voice which
he had already sensed in his dream. He walked toward
the door.
It was broad daylight; the rays of sunlight filtered
through the thatch of the hut.
The girl who had offered him water the day before,
the girl of whom he had dreamed all night long, now
came forward, kindly and eager as ever. This time she
carried a pitcher of milk brimming over with foam.
"It's goat's milk, but fine just the same. Come on now:
taste it."
Demetrio smiled gratefully, straightened up, grasped
the clay pitcher, and proceeded to drink the milk in little
gulps, without removing his eyes from the girl.
She grew self-conscious, lowered her eyes.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Camilla "
"Ah, there's a lovely name! And the girl that bears it,
lovelier still!"
Camilla blushed. As he sought to seize her wrist, she
grew frightened, and Picking up the empty pitcher, flew
out the door.
"No, Demetrio," Anastasio Montanez commented
gravely, "you've got to break them in first. Hmm! It's a
hell of a lot of scars the women have left on my body.
Yes, my friend, I've a heap of experience along that line."
"I feet all right now, Compadre." Demetrio pretended
he had not heard him. "I had fever, and I sweated like a
horse all night, but I feel quite fresh today. The thing
that's irking me hellishly is that Goddamn wound. Can
Venancio to look after me."
"What are we going to do with the tenderfoot we
caught last night?" Pancracio asked.
"That's right: I was forgetting all about him."
As usual, Demetrio hesitated a while before he reached
a decision.
"Here, Quail, come here. Listen: you go and find out
where's the nearest church around here. I know there's
one about six miles away. Go and steal a priest's robe
and bring it back."
"What's the idea?" asked Pancracio in surprise.
"Well, I'll soon find out if this tenderfoot came here
to murder me. I'll tell him he's to be shot, see, and
Quail will put on the priest's robes, say that he's a
priest and hear his confession. If he's got anything up
his sleeve, he'll come out with it, and then I'll shoot
him. Otherwise I'll let him go."
"God, there's a roundabout way to tackle the question.
If I were you, I'd just shoot him and let it go at
that," said Pancracio contemptuously.
That night Quail returned with the priest's robes;
Demetrio ordered the prisoner to be led in. Luis Cervantes
had not eaten or slept for two days, there were
deep black circles under his eyes; his face was deathly
pale, his lips dry and colorless. He spoke awkwardly,
slowly: "You can do as you please with me. . . . I am
convinced I was wrong to come looking for you."
There was a prolonged silence. Then:
"I thought that you would welcome a man who comes
to offer his help, with open arms, even though his help
was quite worthless. After all, you might perhaps have
found some use for it. What, in heaven's name, do I
stand to gain, whether the revolution wins or loses?"
Little by little he grew more animated; at times the
languor in his eyes disappeared.
"The revolution benefits the poor, the ignorant, all
those who have been slaves all their lives, all the unhappy
people who do not even suspect they are poor because
the rich who stand above them, the rich who rule
them, change their sweat and blood and tears into
gold. . .
"Well, what the hell is the gist of all this palaver?
I'll be damned if I can stomach a sermon," Pancracio
broke in.
"I wanted to fight for the sacred cause of the oppressed,
but you don't understand . . . you cast me
aside. . . . Very well, then, you can do as you please
with me!"
"All I'm going to do now is to put this rope around
your neck. Look what a pretty white neck you've got."
"Yes, I know what brought you here," Demetrio interrupted
dryly, scratching his head. "I'm going to have
you shot!"
Then, looking at Anastasio he said:
"Take him away. And . . . if he wants to confess,
bring the priest to him."
Impassive as ever, Anastasio took the prisoner gently
by the arm.
"Come along this way, Tenderfoot."
They all laughed uproariously, when a few minutes
later, Quail appeared in priestly robes.
"By God, this tenderfoot certainly talks his head off,"
Quail said. "You know, I've a notion he was having a
bit of a laugh on me when I started asking him questions."
"But didn't he have anything to say?"
"Nothing, save what he said last night."
"I've a hunch he didn't come here to shoot you at
all, Compadre," said Anastasio.
"Give him something to eat and guard him."
VIII
On the morrow, Luis Cervantes was barely able to
get up. His injured leg trailing behind him, he shuffled
from hut to hut in search of a little alcohol, a kettle of
boiled water and some rags. With unfailing kindness, Camilla
provided him with all that he wanted.
As he began washing his foot, she sat beside him,
and, with typical mountaineer's curiosity, inquired:
"Tell me, who learned you how to cure people? Why
did you boil that water? Why did you boil the rags?
Look, look, how careful you are about everything! And
what did you put on your hands? Really. . . . And why
did you pour on alcohol? I just knew alcohol was good
to rub on when you had a bellyache, but . . . Oh, I
see! So you was going to be a doctor, huh? Ha, ha, that's
a good one! Why don't you mix it with cold water?
Well, there's a funny sort of a trick. Oh, stop fooling
me . . . the idea: little animals alive in the water unless
you boil it! Ugh! Well, I can't see nothing in it myself."
Camilla continued to cross-question him with such familiarity
that she suddenly found herself addressing him
intimately, in the singular tu. Absorbed in his own
thoughts, Luis Cervantes had ceased listening to her.
He thought:
Where are those men on Pancho Villa's payroll, so
admirably equipped and mounted, who only get paid in
those pure silver pieces Villa coins at the Chihuahua
mint? Bah! Barely two dozen half-naked mangy men,
some of them riding decrepit mares with the coat
nibbled off from neck to withers. Can the accounts
given by the Government newspapers and by myself be
really true and are these so-called revolutionists simply
bandits grouped together, using the revolution as a wonderful
pretext to glut their thirst for gold and blood?
Is it all a lie, then? Were their sympathizers talking a
lot of exalted nonsense?
If on one hand the Government newspapers vied
with each other in noisy proclamation of Federal victory
after victory, why then had a paymaster on his way
from Guadalajara started the rumor that President
Huerta's friends and relatives were abandoning the capital
and scuttling away to the nearest port? Was
Huerta's, "I shall have peace, at no matter what cost,"
a meaningless growl? Well, it looked as though the
revolutionists or bandits, call them what you will, were
going to depose the Government. Tomorrow would therefore
belong wholly to them. A man must consequently
be on their side, only on their side.
"No," he said to himself almost aloud, "I don't think
I've made a mistake this time."
"What did you say?" Camilla asked. "I thought you'd
lost your tongue. . . . I thought the mice had eaten it
up!"
Luis Cervantes frowned and cast a hostile glance at
this little plump monkey with her bronzed complexion,
her ivory teeth, and her thick square toes.
"Look here, Tenderfoot, you know how to tell fairy
stories, don't you?"
For all answer, Luis made an impatient gesture and
moved off, the girl's ecstatic glance following his retreating
figure until it was lost on the river path. So
profound was her absorption that she shuddered in nervous
surprise as she heard the voice of her neighbor, oneeyed
Maria Antonia, who had been spying from her hut,
shouting:
"Hey, you there: give him some love powder. Then
he might fall for you."
"That's what you'd do, all right!"
"Oh, you think so, do you? Well, you're quite wrong!
Faugh! I despise a tenderfoot, and don't forget it!"
Ho there, Remigia, lend me some eggs, will you? My
chicken has been hatching since morning. There's some
gentlemen here, come to eat."
Her neighbor's eyes blinked as the bright sunlight
poured into the shadowy hut, darker than usual, even,
as dense clouds of smoke rose from the stove. After a
few minutes, she began to make out the contour of the
various objects inside, and recognized the wounded man's
stretcher, which lay in one corner, close to the ashygray
galvanized iron roof.
She sat down beside Remigia Indian-fashion, and,
glancing furtively toward where Demetrio rested, asked
in a low voice:
"How's the patient, better? That's fine. Oh, how young
he is! But he's still pale, don't you think? So the wound's
not closed up yet. Well, Remigia, don't you think we'd
better try and do something about it?"
Remigia, naked from the waist up, stretched her thin
muscular arms over the corn grinder, pounding the corn
with a stone bar she held in her hands.
"Oh, I don't know; they might not like it," she answered,
breathing heavily as she continued her rude task.
"They've got their own doctor, you know, so--"
"Hallo, there, Remigia," another neighbor said as she
came in, bowing her bony back to pass through the opening,
"haven't you any laurel leaves? We want to make a
potion for Maria Antonia who's not so well today,
what with her bellyache."
In reality, her errand was but a pretext for asking
questions and passing the time of day in gossip, so she
turned her eyes to the corner where the patient lay and,
winking, sought information as to his health.
Remigia lowered her eyes to indicate that Demetrio
was sleeping.
"Oh, I didn't see you when I came in. And you're
here too, Panchita? Well, how are you?"
"Good morning to you, Fortunata. How are you?"
"All right. But Maria Antonia's got the curse today
and her belly's aching something fierce."
She sat Indian-fashion, with bent knees, huddling hip
to hip against Panchita.
"I've got no laurel leaves, honey," Remigia answered,
pausing a moment in her work to push a mop of hair
back from over her sweaty forehead. Then, plunging
her two hands into a mass of corn, she removed a handful
of it dripping with muddy yellowish water. "I've none
at all; you'd better go to Dolores, she's always got herbs,
you know."
"But Dolores went to Cofradia last night. I don't
know, but they say they came to fetch her to help Uncle
Matias' girl who's big with child."
"You don't say, Panchita?"
The three old women came together forming an animated
group, and speaking in low tones, began to gossip
with great gusto.
"Certainly, I swear it, by God up there in heaven."
"Well, well, I was the first one to say that Marcelina
was big with child, wasn't I? But of course no one would
believe me."
"Poor girl. It's going to be terrible if the kid is her
uncle's, you know!"
"God forbid!"
"Of course it's not her uncle: Nazario had nothing to
do with it, I know. It was them damned soldiers, that's
who done it."
"God, what a bloody mess! Another unhappy woman!"
The cackle of the old hens finally awakened Demetrio.
They kept silent for a moment; then Panchita, taking
out of the bosom of her blouse a young pigeon which
opened its beak in suffocation, said:
"To tell you the truth, I brought this medicine for
the gentleman here, but they say he's got a doctor, so
I suppose--"
"That makes no difference, Panchita, that's no medicine
anyhow, it's simply something to rub on his body."
"Forgive this poor gift from a poor woman, senor,"
said the wrinkled old woman, drawing close to Demetrio,
"but there's nothing like it in the world for hemorrhages
and suchlike."
Demetrio nodded hasty approval. They had already
placed a loaf of bread soaked in alcohol on his stomach;
although when this was removed he began to be cooler,
he felt that he was still feverish inside.
"Come on, Remigia, you do it, you certainly know
how," the women said.
Out of a reed sheath, Remigia pulled a long and
curved knife which served to cut cactus fruit. She took
the pigeon in one hand, turned it over, its breast upward,
and with the skill of a surgeon, ripped it in two
with a single thrust.
"In the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Remigia
said, blessing the room and making the sign of the cross;
next, with infinite dexterity, she placed the warm bleeding
portions of the pigeon upon Demetrio's abdomen.
"You'll see: you'll feel much better now."
Obeying Remigia's instructions, Demetrio lay motionless,
crumpled up on one side.
Then Fortunata gave vent to her sorrows. She liked
these gentlemen of the revolution, all right, that she did
--for, three months ago, you know, the Government soldiers
had run away with her only daughter. This had
broken her heart, Yes, and driven her all but crazy.
As she began, Anastasio Montanez and Quail lay on
the floor near the stretcher, their mouths gaping, all
ears to the story. But Fortunata's wealth of detail by
the time she had told half of it bored Quail and he
left the hut to scratch himself out in the sun. By the
time Fortunata had at last concluded with a solemn "I
pray God and the Blessed Virgin Mary that you are
not sparing the life of a single one of those Federals
from hell," Demetrio, face to wall, felt greatly relieved
by the stomach cure, and was busy thinking of the best
route by which to proceed to Durango. Anastasio Montanez
was snoring like a trombone.
X
Why don't you call in the tenderfoot to treat you,
Compadre Demetrio," Anastasio Montanez asked his
chief, who had been complaining daily of chills and fever.
"You ought to see him; no one has laid a hand to him
but himself, and now he's so fit that he doesn't limp
a step."
But Venancio, standing by with his tins of lard and
his dirty string rags ready, protested:
"All right, if anybody lays a hand on Demetrio, I
won't be responsible."
"Nonsense! Rot! What kind of doctor do you think
you are? You're no doctor at all. I'll wager you've already
forgotten why you ever joined us," said Quail.
"Well, I remember why you joined us, Quail," Venancio
replied angrily. "Perhaps you'll deny it was because
you had stolen a watch and some diamond rings."
"Ha, ha, ha! That's rich! But you're worse, my lad;
you ran away from your hometown because you poisoned
your sweetheart."
"You're a Goddamned liar!"
"Yes you did! And don't try and deny it! You fed her
Spanish fly and . . ."
Venancio's shout of protest was drowned out in the
loud laughter of the others. Demetrio, looking pale and
sallow, motioned for silence. Then, plaintively:
"That'll do. Bring in the student."
Luis Cervantes entered. He uncovered Demetrio's
wound, examined it carefully, and shook his head. The
ligaments had made a furrow in the skin. The leg, badly
swollen, seemed about to burst. At every move he made,
Demetrio stifled a moan. Luis Cervantes cut the ligaments,
soaked the wound in water, covered the leg with
large clean rags and bound it up. Demetrio was able to
sleep all afternoon and all night. On the morrow he
woke up happy.
"That tenderfoot has the softest hand in the world!"
he said.
Quickly Venancio cut in:
"All right; just as you say. But don't forget that tenderfoots
are like moisture, they seep in everywhere. It's
the tenderfoots who stopped us reaping the harvest of
the revolution."
Since Demetrio believed in the barber's knowledge
implicitly, when Luis Cervantes came to treat him on
the next day he said:
"Look here, do your best, see. I want to recover
soon and then you can go home or anywhere else you
damn well please."
Discreetly, Luis Cervantes made no reply.
A week, ten days, a fortnight elapsed. The Federal
troops seemed to have vanished. There was an abundance
of corn and beans, too, in the neighboring ranches.
The people hated the Government so bitterly that they
were overjoyed to furnish assistance to the rebels. Demetrio's
men, therefore, were peacefully waiting for the
complete recovery of their chief.
Day after day, Luis Cervantes remained humble and
silent.
"By God, I actually believe you're in love," Demetrio
said jokingly one morning after the daily treatment.
He had begun to like this tenderfoot. From then
on, Demetrio began gradually to show an increasing interest
in Cervantes' comfort. One day he asked him if
the soldiers gave him his daily ration of meat and milk;
Luis Cervantes was forced to answer that his sole nourishment
was whatever the old ranch women happened to
give him and that everyone still considered him an intruder.
"Look here, Tenderfoot, they're all good boys, really,"
Demetrio answered. "You've got to know how to handle
them, that's all. You mark my words; from tomorrow
on, there won't be a thing you'll lack."
In effect, things began to change that very afternoon.
Some of Demetrio's men lay in the quarry, glancing at
the sunset that turned the clouds into huge clots of
congealed blood and listening to Venancio's amusing
stories culled from The Wandering Jew. Some of them,
lulled by the narrator's mellifluous voice, began to snore.
But Luis Cervantes listened avidly and as soon as
Venancio topped off his talk with a storm of anticlerical
denunciations he said emphatically: "Wonderful, wonderful!
What intelligence! You're a most gifted man!"
"Well, I reckon it's not so bad," Venancio answered,
warming to the flattery, "but my parents died and I
didn't have a chance to study for a profession."
"That's easy to remedy, I'm sure. Once our cause is
victorious, you can easily get a degree. A matter of two
or three weeks' assistant's work at some hospital and a
letter of recommendation from our chief and you'll be a
full-fledged doctor, all right. The thing is child's play."
From that night onward Venancio, unlike the others,
ceased calling him Tenderfoot. He addressed him as
Louie.
It was Louie, this, and Louie, that, right and left, all
the time.
XI
Look here, Tenderfoot, I want to tell you something,"
Camilla called to Luis Cervantes, as he made his
way to the hut to fetch some boiling water for his foot.
For days the girl had been restless. Her coy ways and
her reticence had finally annoyed the man; stopping suddenly,
he stood up and eyeing her squarely:
"All right. What do you want to tell me?"
Camilla's tongue clove to her mouth, heavy and damp
as a rag; she could not utter a word. A blush suffused
her cheeks, turning them red as apples; she shrugged
her shoulders and bowed her head, pressing her chin
against her naked breast. Then without moving, with the
fixity of an idiot, she glanced at the wound, and said in
a whisper:
"Look, how nicely it's healing now: it's like a red
Castille rose."
Luis Cervantes frowned and with obvious disgust continued
to care for his foot, completely ignoring her as
he worked. When he had finished, Camilla had vanished.
For three days she was nowhere to be found. It was
always her mother, Agapita, who answered Cervantes'
call, and boiled the water for him and gave him rags.
He was careful to avoid questioning her. Three days
later, Camilla reappeared, more coy and eager than ever.
The more distrait and indifferent Luis Cervantes grew,
the bolder Camilla. At last, she said: "Listen to me, you
nice young fellow, I want to tell you something pleasant.
Please go over the words of the revolutionary song
'Adelita' with me, will you? You can guess why, eh? I
want to sing it and sing it, over again often and often,
see? Then when you're off and away and when you've
forgotten all about Camilla, it'll remind me of you."
To Luis Cervantes her words were like the noise of a
sharp steel knife drawn over the side of a glass bottle.
Blissfully unaware of the effect they had produced, she
proceeded, candid as ever:
"Well, I want to tell you something. You don't know
that your chief is a wicked man, do you? Shall I tell you
what he did to me? You know Demetrio won't let a
soul but Mamma cook for him and me take him his food.
Well, the other day I take some food over to him and
what do you think he did to me, the old fool. He grabs
hold of my wrist and he presses it tight, tight as can
be, and then he starts pinching my legs.
"'Come on, let me go,' I said. 'Keep still, lay off, you
shameless creature. You've got no manners, that's the
trouble with you.' So I wrestled with him, and shook myself
free, like this, and ran off as fast as I could. What
do you think of that?"
Camilla had never seen Luis Cervantes laugh so
heartily.
"But it is really true, all this you've told me?"
Utterly at a loss, Camilla could not answer. Then he
burst into laughter again and repeated the question. A
sense of confusion came upon her. Disturbed, troubled,
she said brokenly:
"Yes, it's the truth. And I wanted to tell you about it.
But you don't seem to feel at all angry."
Once more Camilla glanced adoringly at Luis Cervantes'
radiant, clean face; at his glaucous, soft eyes,
his cheeks pink and polished as a porcelain doll's; at his
tender white skin that showed below the line of his
collar and on his shoulders, protruding from under a
rough woolen poncho; at his hair, ever so slightly curled.
"What the devil are you waiting for, fool? If the chief
likes you, what more do you want?"
Camilla felt something rise within her breast, an empty
ache that became a knot when it reached her throat; she
closed her eyes fast to hold back the tears that welled up
in them. Then, with the back of her hand, she wiped her
wet cheeks, and just as she had done three days
ago, fled with all the swiftness of a young deer.
XII
Demetrio's wound had already healed. They began
to discuss various projects to go northward where,
according to rumor, the rebels had beaten the Federal
troops all along the line.
A certain incident came to precipitate their action.
Seated on a crag of the sierra in the cool of the afternoon
breeze, Luis Cervantes gazed away in the distance,
dreaming and killing time. Below the narrow rock Pancracio
and Manteca, lying like lizards between the
jarales along one of the river margins, were playing
cards. Anastasio Montanez, looking on indifferently,
turned his black hairy face toward Luis Cervantes and,
leveling his kindly gaze upon him, asked:
"Why so sad, you from the city? What are you daydreaming
about? Come on over here and let's have a
chat!"
Luis Cervantes did not move; Anastasio went over to
him and sat down beside him like a friend.
"What you need is the excitement of the city. I wager
you shine your shoes every day and wear a necktie. Now,
I may look dirty and my clothes may be torn to shreds,
but I'm not really what I seem to be. I'm not here because
I've got to be and don't you think so. Why, I own twenty
oxen. Certainly I do; ask my friend Demetrio. I cleared
ten bushels last harvest time. You see, if there's one
thing I love, that's riling these Government fellows and
making them furious. The last scrape I had--it'll be eight
months gone now, ever since I've joined these men--I
stuck my knife into some captain. He was just a nobody,
a little Government squirt. I pinked him here, see,
right under the navel. And that's why I'm here: that and
because I wanted to give my mate Demetrio a hand."
"Christ! The bloody little darling of my life!" Manteca
shouted, waxing enthusiastic over a winning hand. He
placed a twenty-cent silver coin on the jack of spades.
"If you want my opinion, I'm not much on gambling.
Do you want to bet? Well, come on then, I'm game.
How do you like the sound of this leather snake jingling,
eh?"
Anastasio shook his belt; the silver coins rang as he
shook them together.
Meanwhile, Pancracio dealt the cards, the jack of
spades turned up out of the deck and a quarrel ensued.
Altercation, noise, then shouts, and, at last, insults. Pancracio
brought his stony face close to Manteca, who
looked at him with snake's eyes, convulsive, foaming at
the mouth. Another moment and they would have been
exchanging blows. Having completely exhausted their
stock of direct insults, they now resorted to the most
flowery and ornate insulting of each other's ancestors,
male and female, paternal or maternal. Yet nothing untoward
occurred.
After their supply of words was exhausted, they gave
over gambling and, their arms about each other's shoulders,
marched off in search of a drink of alcohol.
"I don't like to fight with my tongue either, it's not decent.
I'm right, too, eh? I tell you no man living has ever
breathed a word to me against my mother. I want to be
respected, see? That's why you've never seen me fooling
with anyone." There was a pause. Then, suddenly, "Look
there, Tenderfoot," Anastasio said, changing his tone
and standing up with one hand spread over his eyes.
"What's that dust over there behind the hillock. By God,
what if it's those damned Federals and we sitting here
doing nothing. Come on, let's go and warn the rest of the
boys."
The news met with cries of joy.
"Ah, we're going to meet them!" cried Pancracio jubilantly,
first among them to rejoice.
"Of course, we're going to meet them! We'll strip them
clean of everything they brought with them."
A few moments later, amid cries of joy and a bustle of
arms, they began saddling their horses. But the enemy
turned out to be a few burros and two Indians, driving
them forward.
"Stop them, anyhow. They must have come from somewhere
and they've probably news for us," Demetrio
said.
Indeed, their news proved sensational. The Federal
troops had fortified the hills in Zacatecas; this was said
to be Huerta's last stronghold, but everybody predicted
the fall of the city. Many families had hastily fled southward.
Trains were overloaded with people; there was a
scarcity of trucks and coaches; hundreds of people,
panic-stricken, walked along the highroad with their belongings
in a pack slung over their shoulders. General
Panfilo Natera was assembling his men at Fresnillo; the
Federals already felt it was all up with them.
"The fall of Zacatecas will be Huerta's requiescat in
pace," Luis Cervantes cried with unusual excitement.
"We've got to be there before the fight starts so that we
can join Natera's army."
Then, suddenly, he noted the surprise with which Demetrio
and his men greeted his suggestion. Crestfallen,
he realized they still considered him of no account.
On the morrow, as the men set off in search of good
mounts before taking to the road again, Demetrio called
Luis Cervantes:
"Do you really want to come with us? Of course you're
cut from another timber, we all know that; God knows
why you should like this sort of life. Do you imagine
we're in this game because we like it? Now, I like the excitement
all right, but that's not all. Sit down here;
that's right. Do you want to know why I'm a rebel? Well,
I'll tell you.
"Before the revolution, I had my land all plowed, see,
and just right for sowing and if it hadn't been for a little
quarrel with Don Monico, the boss of my town, Moyahua,
I'd be there in a jiffy getting the oxen ready for the
sowing, see?
"Here, there, Pancracio, pull down two bottles of beer
for me and this tenderfoot. . . . By the Holy Cross . . .
drinking won't hurt me, now, will it?"
XIII
I was born in Limon, close by Moyahua, right in
the heart of the Juchipila canyon. I had my house and my
cows and a patch of land, see: I had everything I wanted.
Well, I suppose you know how we farmers make a habit
of going over to town every week to hear Mass and the
sermon and then to market to buy our onions and tomatoes
and in general everything they want us to buy at
the ranch. Then you pick up some friends and go to Primitivo
Lopez' saloon for a bit of a drink before dinner;
well, you sit there drinking and you've got to be sociable,
so you drink more than you should and the liquor goes
to your head and you laugh and you're damned happy
and if you feel like it, you sing and shout and kick up a
bit of a row. That's quite all right, anyhow, for we're not
doing anyone any harm. But soon they start bothering
you and the policeman walks up and down and stops occasionally,
with his ear to the door. To put it in a nutshell,
the chief of police and his gang are a lot of joykillers
who decide they want to put a stop to your fun, see?
But by God! You've got guts, you've got red blood in
your veins and you've got a soul, too, see? So you lose
your temper, you stand up to them and tell them to go to
the Devil.
"Now if they understand you, everything's all right;
they leave you alone and that's all there is to it; but sometimes
they try to talk you down and hit you and--well,
you know how it is, a fellow's quick-tempered and he'll be
damned if he'll stand for someone ordering him around
and telling him what's what. So before you know it, you've
got your knife out or your gun leveled, and then off you
go for a wild run in the sierra, until they've forgotten the
corpse,see?
"All right: that's just about what happened to Monico.
The fellow was a greater bluffer than the rest. He
couldn't tell a rooster from a hen, not he. Well, I spit on
his beard because he wouldn't mind his own business.
That's all, there's nothing else to tell.
"Then, just because I did that, he had the whole Goddamned
Federal Government against me. You must have
heard something about that story in Mexico City--
about the killing of Madero and some other fellow,
Felix or Felipe Diaz, or something--I don't know.
Well, this man Monico goes in person to Zacatecas to
get an army to capture me. They said that I was a Maderista
and that I was going to rebel. But a man like me
always has friends. Somebody came and warned me of
what was coming to me, so when the soldiers reached
Limon I was miles and miles away. Trust me! Then my
compadre Anastasio who killed somebody came and
joined me, and Pancracio and Quail and a lot of friends
and acquaintances came after him. Since then we've been
sort of collecting, see? You know for yourself, we get
along as best we can. . . ."
For a while, both men sat meditating in silence. Then:
"Look here, Chief," said Luis Cervantes. "You know
that some of Natera's men are at Juchipila, quite near
here. I think we should join them before they capture
Zacatecas. All we need do is speak to the General."
"I'm no good at that sort of thing. And I don't like the
idea of accepting orders from anybody very much."
"But you've only a handful of men down here; you'll
only be an unimportant chieftain. There's no argument
about it, the revolution is bound to win. After it's all
over they'll talk to you just as Madero talked to all those
who had helped him: 'Thank you very much, my friends,
you can go home now. . . .' "
"Well that's all I want, to be let alone so I can go
home."
"Wait a moment, I haven't finished. Madero said:
'You men have made me President of the Republic. You
have run the risk of losing your lives and leaving your
wives and children destitute; now I have what I wanted,
you can go back to your picks and shovels, you can
resume your hand-to-mouth existence, you can go halfnaked
and hungry just as you did before, while we, your
superiors, will go about trying to pile up a few million
pesos. . . .'"
Demetrio nodded and, smiling, scratched his head.
"You said a mouthful, Louie," Venancio the barber
put in enthusiastically. "A mouthful as big as a church!"
"As I was saying," Luis Cervantes resumed, "when
the revolution is over, everything is over. Too bad that so
many men have been killed, too bad there are so many
widows and orphans, too bad there was so much bloodshed.
"Of course, you are not selfish; you say to yourself:
'All I want to do is go back home.' But I ask you, is it
fair to deprive your wife and kids of a fortune which God
himself places within reach of your hand? Is it fair to
abandon your motherland in this solemn moment when
she most needs the self-sacrifice of her sons, when she
most needs her humble sons to save her from falling
again in the clutches of her eternal oppressors, executioners,
and caciques? You must not forget that the thing
a man holds most sacred on earth is his motherland."
Macias smiled, his eyes shining.
"Will it be all right if we go with Natera?"
"Not only all right," Venancio said insinuatingly, "but
I think it absolutely necessary."
"Now Chief," Cervantes pursued, "I took a fancy to
you the first time I laid eyes on you and I like you more
and more every day because I realize what you are
worth. Please let me be utterly frank. You do not yet
realize your lofty noble function. You are a modest man
without ambitions, you do not wish to realize the exceedingly
important role you are destined to play in the
revolution. It is not true that you took up arms simply because
of Senor Monico. You are under arms to protest
against the evils of all the caciques who are overrunning
the whole nation. We are the elements of a social movement
which will not rest until it has enlarged the destinies
of our motherland. We are the tools Destiny makes use of
to reclaim the sacred rights of the people. We are not
fighting to dethrone a miserable murderer, we are fighting
against tyranny itself. What moves us is what men call
ideals; our action is what men call fighting for a principle.
A principle! That's why Villa and Natera and Carranza
are fighting; that's why we, every man of us, are
fighting."
"Yes ... yes ... exactly what I've been thinking myself,"
said Venancio in a climax of enthusiasm.
"Hey, there, Pancracio," Macias called, "pull down
two more beers."
XIV
You ought to see how clear that fellow can make
things, Compadre," Demetrio said. All morning long he
had been pondering as much of Luis Cervantes' speech
as he had understood.
"I heard him too," Anastasio answered. "People who
can read and write get things clear, all right; nothing
was ever truer. But what I can't make out is how you're
going to go and meet Natera with as few men as we
have."
"That's nothing. We're going to do things different
now. They tell me that as soon as Crispin Robles enters
a town he gets hold of all the horses and guns in the
place; then he goes to the jail and lets all the jailbirds
out, and, before you know it, he's got plenty of men, all
right. You'll see. You know I'm beginning to feel that
we haven't done things right so far. It don't seem right
somehow that this city guy should be able to tell us
what to do."
"Ain't it wonderful to be able to read and write!"
They both sighed, sadly. Luis Cervantes came in with
several others to find out the day of their departure.
"We're leaving no later than tomorrow," said Demetrio
without hesitation.
Quail suggested that musicians be summoned from
the neighboring hamlet and that a farewell dance be
given. His idea met with enthusiasm on all sides.
"We'll go, then," Pancracio shouted, "but I'm certainly
going in good company this time. My sweetheart's coming
along with me!"
Demetrio replied that he too would willingly take along
a girl he had set his eye on, but that he hoped none of his
men would leave bitter memories behind them as the
Federals did.
"You won't have long to wait. Everything will be arranged
when you return," Luis Cervantes whispered to him.
"What do you mean?" Demetrio asked. "I thought
that you and Camilla . . ."
"There's not a word of truth in it, Chief. She likes you
but she's afraid of you, that's all."
"Really? Is that really true?"
"Yes. But I think you're quite right in not wanting
to leave any bitter feelings behind you as you go. When
you come back as a conqueror, everything will be different.
They'll all thank you for it even."
"By God, you're certainly a shrewd one," Demetrio replied,
patting him on the back.
At sundown, Camilla went to the river to fetch water
as usual. Luis Cervantes, walking down the same trail,
met her. Camilla felt her heart leap to her mouth. But,
without taking the slightest notice of her, Luis Cervantes
hastily took one of the turns and disappeared among the
rocks.
At this hour, as usual, the calcinated rocks, the sunburnt
branches, and the dry weeds faded into the semiobscurity
of the shadows. The wind blew softly, the green
lances of the young corn leaves rustling in the twilight.
Nothing was changed; all nature was as she had found it
before, evening upon evening; but in the stones and the
dry weeds, amid the fragrance of the air and the light
whir of falling leaves, Camilla sensed a new strangeness,
a vast desolation in everything about her.
Rounding a huge eroded rock, suddenly Camilla found
herself face to face with Luis, who was seated on a stone,
hatless, his legs dangling.
"Listen, you might come down here to say good-bye."
Luis Cervantes was obliging enough; he jumped down
and joined her.
"You're proud, ain't you? Have I been so mean that
you don't even want to talk to me?"
"Why do you say that, Camilla? You've been extremely
kind to me; why, you've been more than a friend,
you've taken care of me as if you were my sister. Now
I'm about to leave, I'm very grateful to you; I'll always
remember you."
"Liar!" Camilla said, her face transfigured with joy.
"Suppose I hadn't come after you?"
"I intended to say good-bye to you at the dance this
evening."
"What dance? If there's a dance, I'll not go to it."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't stand that horrible man . . . Demetrio!"
"Don't be silly, child," said Luis. "He's really very fond
of you. Don't go and throw away this opportunity. You'll
never have one like it again in your life. Don't you know
that Demetrio is on the point of becoming a general, you
silly girl? He'll be a very wealthy man, with horses galore;
and you'll have jewels and clothes and a fine house
and a lot of money to spend. Just imagine what a life
you would lead with him!"
Camilla stared up at the blue sky so he should not
read the expression in her eyes. A dead leaf shook slowly
loose from the crest of a tree swinging slowly on the
wind, fell like a small dead butterfly at her feet. She
bent down and took it in her fingers. Then, without looking
at him, she murmured:
"It's horrible to hear you talk like that. . . . I like
you . . . no one else. . . . Ah, well, go then, go: I feel
ashamed now. Please leave me!"
She threw away the leaf she had crumpled in her
hand and covered her face with a corner of her apron.
When she opened her eyes, Luis Cervantes had disappeared.
She followed the river trail. The river seemed to have
been sprinkled with a fine red dust. On its surface drifted
now a sky of variegated colors, now the dark crags,
half light, half shadow. Myriads of luminous insects
twinkled in a hollow. Camilla, standing on the beach of
washed, round stones, caught a reflection of herself in
the waters; she saw herself in her yellow blouse with the
green ribbons, her white skirt, her carefully combed hair,
her wide eyebrows and broad forehead, exactly as she
had dressed to please Luis. She burst into tears.
Among the reeds, the frogs chanted the implacable
melancholy of the hour. Perched on a dry root, a dove
wept also.
XV
That evening, there was much merrymaking at the
dance, and a great quantity of mezcal was drunk.
"I miss Camilla," said Demetrio in a loud voice.
Everybody looked about for Camilla.
"She's sick, she's got a headache," said Agapita harshly,
uneasy as she caught sight of the malicious glances
leveled at her.
When the dance was over, Demetrio, somewhat unsteady
on his feet, thanked all the kind neighbors who
had welcomed them and promised that when the revolution
had triumphed he would remember them one and
all, because "hospital or jail is a true test of friendship."
"May God's hand lead you all," said an old woman.
"God bless you all and keep you well," others added.
Utterly drunk, Maria Antonia said:
"Come back soon, damn soon!"
On the morrow, Maria Antonia, who, though she was
pockmarked and walleyed, nevertheless enjoyed a notorious
reputation--indeed it was confidently proclaimed
that no man had failed to go with her behind the river
weeds at some time or other--shouted to Camilla:
"Hey there, you! What's the matter? What are you
doing there skulking in the corner with a shawl tied
round your head! You're crying, I wager. Look at her
eyes; they look like a witch's. There's no sorrow lasts
more than three days!"
Agapita knitted her eyebrows and muttered indistinctly
to herself.
The old crones felt uneasy and lonesome since Demetrio's
men had left. The men, too, in spite of their gossip
and insults, lamented their departure since now they
would have no one to bring them fresh meat every day.
It is pleasant indeed to spend your time eating and drinking,
and sleeping all day long in the cool shade of the
rocks, while clouds ravel and unravel their fleecy threads
on the blue shuttle of the sky.
"Look at them again. There they go!" Maria Antonia
yelled. "Why, they look like toys."
Demetrio's men, riding their thin nags, could still be
descried in the distance against the sapphire translucence
of the sky, where the broken rocks and the chaparral
melted into a single bluish smooth surface. Across the air
a gust of hot wind bore the broken, faltering strains of
"La Adelita," the revolutionary song, to the settlement.
Camilla, who had come out when Maria Antonia
shouted, could no longer control herself; she dived back
into her hut, unable to restrain her tears and moaning.
Maria Antonia burst into laughter and moved off.
"They've cast the evil eye on my daughter," Agapita
said in perplexity. She pondered a while, then duly reached
a decision. From a pole in the hut she took down a piece
of strong leather which her husband used to hitch up the
yoke. This pole stood between a picture of Christ and
one of the Virgin. Agapita promptly twisted the leather
and proceeded to administer a sound thrashing to Camilla
in order to dispel the evil spirits.
Riding proudly on his horse, Demetrio felt like a new
man. His eyes recovered their peculiar metallic brilliance,
and the blood flowed, red and warm, through his coppery,
pure-blooded Aztec cheeks.
The men threw out their chests as if to breathe the
widening horizon, the immensity of the sky, the blue from
the mountains and the fresh air, redolent with the various
odors of the sierra. They spurred their horses to a gallop
as if in that mad race they laid claims of possession to
the earth. What man among them now remembered the
stern chief of police, the growling policeman, or the conceited
cacique? What man remembered his pitiful hut
where he slaved away, always under the eyes of the
owner or the ruthless and sullen foreman, always forced
to rise before dawn, and to take up his shovel, basket,
or goad, wearing himself out to earn a mere pitcher of
atole and a handful of beans?
They laughed, they sang, they whistled, drunk with the
sunlight, the air of the open spaces, the wine of life.
Meco, prancing forward on his horse, bared his white
glistening teeth, joking and kicking up like a clown.
"Hey, Pancracio," he asked with utmost seriousness,
"my wife writes me I've got another kid. How in hell is
that? I ain't seen her since Madero was President."
"That's nothing," the other replied. "You just left her
a lot of eggs to hatch for you!"
They all laughed uproariously. Only Meco, grave and
aloof, sang in a voice horribly shrill:
"I gave her a penny
That wasn't enough.
I gave her a nickel
The wench wanted more.
We bargained. I asked
If a dime was enough
But she wanted a quarter.
By God! That was tough!
All wenches are fickle
And trumpery stuff!"
The sun, beating down upon them, dulled their minds
and bodies and presently they were silent. All day long
they rode through the canyon, up and down the steep,
round hills, dirty and bald as a man's head, hill after hill
in endless succession. At last, late in the afternoon, they
descried several stone church towers in the heart of a
bluish ridge, and, beyond, the white road with its curling
spirals of dust and its gray telegraph poles.
They advanced toward the main road; in the distance
they spied a figure of an Indian sitting on the embankment.
They drew up to him. He proved to be an unfriendly
looking old man, clad in rags; he was laboriously
attempting to mend his leather sandals with the help of a
dull knife. A burro loaded with fresh green grass stood
by. Demetrio accosted him.
"What are you doing, Grandpa?"
"Gathering alfalfa for my cow."
"How many Federals are there around here?"
"Just a few: not more than a dozen, I reckon."
The old man grew communicative. He told them of
many important rumors: Obregon was besieging Guadalajara,
Torres was in complete control of the Potosi region,
Natera ruled over Fresnillo.
"All right," said Demetrio, "you can go where you're
headed for, see, but you be damn careful not to tell anyone
you saw us, because if you do, I'll pump you full of
lead. And I could track you down, even if you tried to
hide in the pit of hell, see?"
"What do you say, boys?" Demetrio asked them as
soon as the old man had disappeared.
"To hell with the mochos! We'll kill every blasted one
of them!" they cried in unison.
Then they set to counting their cartridges and the hand
grenades the Owl had made out of fragments of iron
tubing and metal bed handles.
"Not much to brag about, but we'll soon trade them
for rifles," Anastasio observed.
Anxiously they pressed forward, spurring the thin flanks
of their nags to a gallop. Demetrio's brisk, imperious
tones of order brought them abruptly to a halt.
They dismounted by the side of a hill, protected by
thick huizache trees. Without unsaddling their horses,
each began to search for stones to serve as pillows.
XVI
At midnight Demetrio Macias ordered the march to
be resumed. The town was five or six miles away; the best
plan was to take the soldiers by surprise, before reveille.
The sky was cloudy, with here and there a star shining.
From time to time a flash of lightning crossed the sky
with a red dart, illumining the far horizon.
Luis Cervantes asked Demetrio whether the success of
the attack might not be better served by procuring a guide
or leastways by ascertaining the topographic conditions of
the town and the precise location of the soldiers' quarters.
"No," Demetrio answered, accompanying his smile with
a disdainful gesture, "we'll simply fall on them when they
least expect it; that's all there is to it, see? We've done it
before all right, lots of times! Haven't you ever seen the
squirrels stick their heads out of their holes when you
poured in water? Well, that's how these lousy soldiers are
going to feel. Do you see? They'll be frightened out of
their wits the moment they hear our first shot. Then they'll
slink out and stand as targets for us."
"Suppose the old man we met yesterday lied to us.
Suppose there are fifty soldiers instead of twenty. Who
knows but he's a spy sent out by the Federals!"
"Ha, Tenderfoot, frightened already, eh?" Anastasio
Montanez mocked.
"Sure! Handling a rifle and messing about with bandages
are two different things," Pancracio observed.
"Well, that's enough talk, I guess," said Meco. "All we
have to do is fight a dozen frightened rats."
"This fight won't convince our mothers that they gave
birth to men or whatever the hell you like. . . ." Manteca
added.
When they reached the outskirts of the town, Venancio
walked ahead and knocked at the door of a hut.
"Where's the soldiers' barracks?" he inquired of a man
who came out barefoot, a ragged serape covering his
body.
"Right there, just beyond the Plaza," he answered.
Since nobody knew where the city square was, Venancio
made him walk ahead to show the way. Trembling
with fear, the poor devil told them they were doing him
a terrible wrong.
"I'm just a poor day laborer, sir; I've got a wife and a
lot of kids."
"What the hell do you think I have, dogs?" Demetrio
scowled. "I've got kids too, see?"
Then he commanded:
"You men keep quiet. Not a sound out of you! And
walk down the middle of the street, single file."
The rectangular church cupola rose above the small
houses.
"Here, gentlemen; there's the Plaza beyond the church.
Just walk a bit further and there's the barracks."
He knelt down, then, imploring them to let him go, but
Pancracio, without pausing to reply, struck him across
the chest with his rifle and ordered him to proceed.
"How many soldiers are there?" Luis Cervantes asked.
"I don't want to lie to you, boss, but to tell you the
truth, yes, sir, to tell you God's truth, there's a lot of
them, a whole lot of 'em."
Luis Cervantes turned around to stare at Demetrio,
who feigned momentary deafness.
They were soon in the city square.
A loud volley of rifle shots rang out, deafening them.
Demetrio's horse reared, staggered on its hind legs, bent
its forelegs, and fell to the ground, kicking. The Owl
uttered a piercing cry and fell from his horse which
rushed madly to the center of the square.
Another volley: the guide threw up his arms and fell
on his back without a sound.
With all haste, Anastasio Montanez helped Demetrio
up behind him on his horse; the others retreated, seeking
shelter along the walls of the houses.
"Hey, men," said a workman sticking his head out of a
large door, "go for 'em through the back of the chapel.
They're all in there. Cut back through this street, then
turn to the left; you'll reach an alley. Keep on going ahead
until you hit the chapel."
As he spoke a fresh volley of pistol shots, directed
from the neighboring roofs, fell like a rain about them.
"By God," the man said, "those ain't poisonous spiders;
they're only townsmen scared of their own shadow. Come
in here until they stop."
"How many of them are there?" asked Demetrio.
"There were only twelve of them. But last night they
were scared out of their wits so they wired to the town
beyond for help. I don't know how many of them there
are now. Even if there are a hell of a lot of them, it
doesn't cut any ice! Most of them aren't soldiers, you
know, but drafted men; if just one of them starts mutinying,
the rest will follow like sheep. My brother was
drafted; they've got him there. I'll go along with you
and signal to him; all of them will desert and follow you.
Then we'll only have the officers to deal with! If you want
to give me a gun or something. . . ."
"No more rifles left, brother. But I guess you can
put these to some use," Anastasio Montanez said, passing
him two hand grenades.
The officer in command of the Federals was a young
coxcomb of a captain with a waxed mustache and blond
hair. As long as he felt uncertain about the strength of the
assailants, he had remained extremely quiet and prudent;
but now that they had driven the rebels back without allowing
them a chance to fire a single shot, he waxed bold
and brave. While the soldiers did not dare put out their
heads beyond the pillars of the building, his own shadow
stood against the pale clear dawn, exhibiting his well-built
slender body and his officer's cape bellying in the breeze.
"Ha, I remember our coup d'etat!"
His military career had consisted of the single adventure
when, together with other students of the Officers'
School, he was involved in the treacherous revolt of
Feliz Diaz and Huerta against President Madero. Whenever
the slightest insubordination arose, he invariably recalled
his feat at the Ciudadela.
"Lieutenant Campos," he ordered emphatically, "take
a dozen men and wipe out the bandits hiding there! The
curs! They're only brave when it comes to guzzling meat
and robbing a hencoop!"
A workingman appeared at the small door of the spiral
staircase, announcing that the assailants were hidden in
a corral where they might easily be captured. This message
came from the citizens keeping watch on housetops.
"I'll go myself and get it over with!" the officer declared
impetuously.
But he soon changed his mind. Before he had reached
the door, he retraced his steps.
"Very likely they are waiting for more men and, of
course, it would be wrong for me to abandon my post.
Lieutenant Campos, go there yourself and capture them
dead or alive. We'll shoot them at noon when everybody's
coming out of church. Those bandits will see the
example I'll set around here. But if you can't capture
them, Lieutenant, kill them all. Don't leave a man of
them alive, do you understand?"
In high good humor, he began pacing up and down
the room, formulating the official despatch he would send
off no later than today.
To His Honor the Minister for War,
General A. Blanquet,
Mexico City.
Sir:
I have the honor to inform your Excellency that on the
morning of . . . a rebel army, five hundred strong, commanded
by . . . attacked this town, which I am charged
to defend. With such speed as the gravity of the situation
called for, I fortified my post in the town. The battle
lasted two hours. Despite the superiority of the enemy in
men and equipment, I was able to defeat and rout them.
Their casualties were twenty killed and a far greater number
of wounded, judging from the trails of blood they left
behind them as they retreated. I am pleased to state there
was no casualty on our side. I have the honor to congratulate
Your Excellency upon this new triumph for the
Federal arms. Viva Presidente Huerta! Viva Mexico!
"Well," the young captain mused, "I'll be promoted to
major." He clasped his hands together, jubilant. At this
precise moment, a detonation rang out. His ears buzzed, he--
XVII
If we get through the corral, we can make the alley,
eh?" Demetrio asked.
"That's right," the workman answered. "Beyond the
corral there's a house, then another corral, then there's
a store."
Demetrio scratched his head, thoughtfully. This time
his decision was immediate.
"Can you get hold of a crowbar or something like that
to make a hole through the wall?"
"Yes, we'll get anything you want, but . . ."
"But what? Where can we get a crowbar?"
"Everything is right there. But it all belongs to the
boss."
Without further ado, Demetrio strode into the shed
which had been pointed out as the toolhouse.
It was all a matter of a few minutes. Once in the alley,
hugging to the walls, they marched forward in single file
until they reached the rear of the church. Now they had
but a single fence and the rear wall of the chapel to
scale.
"God's will be done!" Demetrio said to himself. He was
the first to clamber over.
Like monkeys the others followed him, reaching the
other side with bleeding, grimy hands. The rest was easy.
The deep worn steps along the stonework made their ascent
of the chapel wall swifter. The church vault hid
them from the soldiers.
"Wait a moment, will you?" said the workman. "I'll
go and see where my brother is; I'll let you know and then
you'll get at the officers."
But no one paid the slightest attention to him.
For a second, Demetrio glanced at the soldiers' black
coats hanging on the wall, then at his own men, thick on
the church tower behind the iron rail. He smiled with
satisfaction and turning to his men said:
"Come on, now, boys!"
Twenty bombs exploded simultaneously in the midst
of the soldiers who, awaking terrified out of their sleep,
started up, their eyes wide open. But before they had realized
their plight, twenty more bombs burst like thunder
upon them leaving a scattering of men killed or maimed.
"Don't do that yet, for God's sake! Don't do it till I
find my brother," the workman implored in anguish.
In vain an old sergeant harangued the soldiers, insulting
them in the hope of rallying them. For they were rats,
caught in a trap, no more, no less. Some of the soldiers,
attempting to reach the small door by the staircase, fell
to the ground pierced by Demetrio's shots. Others fell at
the feet of these twenty-odd specters, with faces and
breasts dark as iron, clad in long torn trousers of white
cloth which fell to their leather sandals, scattering death
and destruction below them. In the belfry, a few men
struggled to emerge from the pile of dead who had fallen
upon them.
"It's awful, Chief!" Luis Cervantes cried in alarm.
"We've no more bombs left and we left our guns in the
corral."
Smiling, Demetrio drew out a large shining knife. In the
twinkling of an eye, steel flashed in every hand. Some
knives were large and pointed, others wide as the palm
of a hand, others heavy as bayonets.
"The spy!" Luis Cervantes cried triumphantly. "Didn't
I tell you?"
"Don't kill me, Chief, please don't kill me," the old sergeant
implored squirming at the feet of Demetrio, who
stood over him, knife in hand. The victim raised his
wrinkled Indian face; there was not a single gray hair in
his head today. Demetrio recognized the spy who had
lied to him the day before. Terrified, Luis Cervantes
quickly averted his face. The steel blade went crack,
crack, on the old man's ribs. He toppled backward, his
arms spread, his eyes ghastly.
"Don't kill my brother, don't kill him, he's my brother!"
the workman shouted in terror to Pancracio who was
pursuing a soldier. But it was too late. With one thrust,
Pancracio had cut his neck in half, and two streams of
scarlet spurted from the wound.
"Kill the soldiers, kill them all!"
Pancracio and Manteca surpassed the others in the
savagery of their slaughter, and finished up with the
wounded. Montanez, exhausted, let his arm fall; it hung
limp to his side. A gentle expression still filled his glance;
his eyes shone; he was naive as a child, unmoral as a
hyena.
"Here's one who's not dead yet," Quail shouted.
Pancracio ran up. The little blond captain with curled
mustache turned pale as wax. He stood against the door
to the staircase unable to muster enough strength to take
another step.
Pancracio pushed him brutally to the edge of the corridor.
A jab with his knee against the captain's thigh--
then a sound not unlike a bag of stones falling from the
top of the steeple on the porch of the church.
"My God, you've got no brains!" said Quail. "If I'd
known what you were doing, I'd have kept him for myself.
That was a fine pair of shoes you lost!"
Bending over them, the rebels stripped those among
the soldiers who were best clad, laughing and joking as
they despoiled them. Brushing back his long hair, that
had fallen over his sweating forehead and covered his
eyes, Demetrio said:
"Now let's get those city fellows!"
XVIII
On the day General Natera began his advance against
the town of Zacatecas, Demetrio with a hundred men went
to meet him at Fresnillo.
The leader received him cordially.
"I know who you are and the sort of men you bring.
I heard about the beatings you gave the Federals from
Tepic to Durango."
Natera shook hands with Demetrio effusively while Luis
Cervantes said:
"With men like General Natera and Colonel Demetrio
Macias, we'll cover our country with glory."
Demetrio understood the purpose of those words, after
Natera had repeatedly addressed him as "Colonel."
Wine and beer were served; Demetrio and Natera
drank many a toast. Luis Cervantes proposed: "The triumph
of our cause, which is the sublime triumph of Justice,
because our ideal--to free the noble, long-suffering
people of Mexico--is about to be realized and because
those men who have watered the earth with their blood
and tears will reap the harvest which is rightfully theirs."
Natera fixed his cruel gaze on the orator, then turned his
back on him to talk to Demetrio. Presently, one of Natera's
officers, a young man with a frank open face, drew
up to the table and stared insistently at Cervantes.
"Are you Luis Cervantes?"
"Yes. You're Solis, eh?"
"The moment you entered I thought I recognized you.
Well, well, even now I can hardly believe my eyes!"
"It's true enough!"
"Well, but . . . look here, let's have a drink, come
along." Then:
"Hm," Solis went on, offering Cervantes a chair,
"since when have you turned rebel?"
"I've been a rebel the last two months!"
"Oh, I see! That's why you speak with such faith and
enthusiasm about things we all felt when we joined the
revolution."
"Have you lost your faith or enthusiasm?"
"Look here, man, don't be surprised if I confide in you
right off. I am so anxious to find someone intelligent
among this crowd, that as soon as I get hold of a man
like you I clutch at him as eagerly as I would at a glass
of water, after walking mile after mile through a parched
desert. But frankly, I think you should do the explaining
first. I can't understand how a man who was correspondent
of a Government newspaper during the Madero regime,
and later editorial writer on a Conservative journal,
who denounced us as bandits in the most fiery articles,
is now fighting on our side."
"I tell you honestly: I have been converted," Cervantes
answered.
"Are you absolutely convinced?"
Solis sighed, filled the glasses; they drank.
"What about you? Are you tired of the revolution?"
asked Cervantes sharply.
"Tired? My dear fellow, I'm twenty-five years old and
I'm fit as a fiddle! But am I disappointed? Perhaps!"
"You must have sound reasons for feeling that way."
"I hoped to find a meadow at the end of the road. I
found a swamp. Facts are bitter; so are men. That bitterness
eats your heart out; it is poison, dry rot. Enthusiasm,
hope, ideals, happiness-vain dreams, vain dreams.
. . . When that's over, you have a choice. Either you
turn bandit, like the rest, or the timeservers will swamp
you. . . ."
Cervantes writhed at his friend's words; his argument
was quite out of place . . . painful. . . . To avoid being
forced to take issue, he invited Solis to cite the circumstances
that had destroyed his illusions.
"Circumstances? No--it's far less important than that.
It's a host of silly, insignificant things that no one notices
except yourself . . . a change of expression, eyes shining-
lips curled in a sneer-the deep import of a phrase
that is lost! Yet take these things together and they compose
the mask of our race . . . terrible . . . grotesque . . .
a race that awaits redemption!"
He drained another glass. After a long pause, he continued:
"You ask me why I am still a rebel? Well, the revolution
is like a hurricane: if you're in it, you're not a man
. . . you're a leaf, a dead leaf, blown by the wind."
Demetrio reappeared. Seeing him, Solis relapsed into
silence.
"Come along," Demetrio said to Cervantes. "Come
with me."
Unctuously, Solis congratulated Demetrio on the
feats that had won him fame and the notice of Pancho
Villa's northern division.
Demetrio warmed to his praise. Gratefully, he heard his
prowess vaunted, though at times he found it difficult to
believe he was the hero of the exploits the other narrated.
But Solis' story proved so charming, so convincing,
that before long he found himself repeating it
as gospel truth.
"Natera is a genius!" Luis Cervantes said when they had
returned to the hotel. "But Captain Solis is a nobody
. . . a timeserver."
Demetrio Macias was too elated to listen to him.
"I'm a colonel, my lad! And you're my secretary!"
Demetrio's men made many acquaintances that evening;
much liquor flowed to celebrate new friendships.
Of course men are not necessarily even tempered, nor is
alcohol a good counselor; quarrels naturally ensued.
Yet many differences that occurred were smoothed out in
a friendly spirit, outside the saloons, restaurants, or brothels.
On the morrow, casualties were reported. Always a few
dead. An old prostitute was found with a bullet through
her stomach; two of Colonel Macias' new men lay in the
gutter, slit from ear to ear.
Anastasio Montanez carried an account of the events
to his chief. Demetrio shrugged his shoulders.
"Bury them!" he said.
XIX
They're coming back!"
It was with amazement that the inhabitants of Fresnillo
learned that the rebel attack on Zacatecas had failed completely.
"They're coming back!"
The rebels were a maddened mob, sunburnt, filthy,
naked. Their high wide-brimmed straw hats hid their
faces. The "high hats" came back as happily as they had
marched forth a few days before, pillaging every hamlet
along the road, every ranch, even the poorest hut.
"Who'll buy this thing?" one of them asked. He had
carried his spoils long: he was tired. The sheen of the
nickel on the typewriter, a new machine, attracted every
glance. Five times that morning the Oliver had changed
hands. The first sale netted the owner ten pesos; presently
it had sold for eight; each time it changed hands, it
was two pesos cheaper. To be sure, it was a heavy burden;
nobody could carry it for more than a half-hour.
"I'll give you a quarter for it!" Quail said.
"Yours!" cried the owner, handing it over quickly, as
though he feared Quail might change his mind. Thus for
the sum of twenty-five cents, Quail was afforded the pleasure
of taking it in his hands and throwing it with all his
might against the wall.
It struck with a crash. This gave the signal to all who
carried any cumbersome objects to get rid of them by
smashing them against the rocks. Objects of all sorts,
crystal, china, faience, porcelain, flew through the air.
Heavy, plated mirrors, brass candlesticks, fragile, delicate
statues, Chinese vases, any object not readily convertible
into cash fell by the wayside in fragments.
Demetrio did not share the untoward exaltation. After
all, they were retreating defeated. He called Montanez
and Pancracio aside and said:
"These fellows have no guts. It's not so hard to take a
town. It's like this. First, you open up, this way. . . ."
He sketched a vast gesture, spreading his powerful arms.
"Then you get close to them, like this. . . ." He brought
his arms together, slowly. "Then slam! Bang! Whack!
Crash!" He beat his hands against his chest.
Anastasio and Pancracio, convinced by this simple,
lucid explanation answered:
"That's God's truth! They've no guts! That's the trouble
with them!"
Demetrio's men camped in a corral.
"Do you remember Camilla?" Demetrio asked with a
sigh as he settled on his back on the manure pile where
the rest were already stretched out.
"Camilla? What girl do you mean, Demetrio?"
"The girl that used to feed me up there at the ranch!"
Anastasio made a gesture implying: "I don't care a
damn about the women ... Camilla or anyone else...."
"I've not forgotten," Demetrio went on, drawing on his
cigarette. "Yes, I was feeling like hell! I'd just finished
drinking a glass of water. God, but it was cool. . . . 'Don't
you want any more?' she asked me. I was half dead with
fever . . . and all the time I saw that glass of water, blue
. . . so blue . . . and I heard her little voice, 'Don't you
want any more?' That voice tinkled in my ears like a
silver hurdy-gurdy! Well, Pancracio, what about it? Shall
we go back to the ranch?"
"Demetrio, we're friends, aren't we? Well then, listen.
You may not believe it, but I've had a lot of experience
with women. Women! Christ, they're all right for a while,
granted! Though even that's going pretty far. Demetrio,
you should see the scars they've given me . . . all over
my body, not to speak of my soul! To hell with women.
They're the devil, that's what they are! You may have
noticed I steer clear of them. You know why. And don't
think I don't know what I'm talking about. I've had a hell
of a lot of experience and that's no lie!"
"What do you say, Pancracio? When are we going back
to the ranch?" Demetrio insisted, blowing gray clouds of
tobacco smoke into the air.
"Say the day, I'm game. You know I left my woman
there too!"
"Your woman, hell!" Quail said, disgruntled and sleepy.
"All right, then, our woman! It's a good thing you're
kindhearted so we all can enjoy her when you bring her
over," Manteca murmured.
"That's right, Pancracio, bring one-eyed Maria Antonia.
We're all getting pretty cold around here," Meco
shouted from a distance.
The crowd broke into peals of laughter. Pancracio and
Manteca vied with each other in calling forth oaths and
obscenity.
XX
Villa is coming!"
The news spread like lightning. Villa--the magic word!
The Great Man, the salient profile, the unconquerable
warrior who, even at a distance, exerts the fascination of
a reptile, a boa constrictor.
"Our Mexican Napoleon!" exclaimed Luis Cervantes.
"Yes! The Aztec Eagle! He buried his beak of steel
in the head of Huerta the serpent!" Solis, Natera's chief
of staff, remarked somewhat ironically, adding: "At least,
that's how I expressed it in a speech I made at Ciudad
Juarez!"
The two sat at the bar of the saloon, drinking beer.
The "high hats," wearing mufflers around their necks and
thick rough leather shoes on their feet, ate and drank
endlessly. Their gnarled hands loomed across table,
across bar. All their talk was of Villa and his men. The
tales Natera's followers related won gasps of astonishment
from Demetrio's men. Villa! Villa's battles! Ciudad
Juarez . . . Tierra Blanca . . . Chihuahua . . . Torreon.
. . .
The bare facts, the mere citing of observation and experience
meant nothing. But the real story, with its extraordinary
contrasts of high exploits and abysmal cruelties
was quite different. Villa, indomitable lord of the
sierra, the eternal victim of all governments . . . Villa
tracked, hunted down like a wild beast . . . Villa the reincarnation
of the old legend; Villa as Providence, the bandit,
that passes through the world armed with the blazing
torch of an ideal: to rob the rich and give to the poor. It
was the poor who built up and imposed a legend about
him which Time itself was to increase and embellish as a
shining example from generation to generation.
"Look here, friend," one of Natera's men told Anastasio,
"if General Villa takes a fancy to you, he'll give you
a ranch on the spot. But if he doesn't, he'll shoot
you down like a dog! God! You ought to see Villa's
troops! They're all northerners and dressed like lords!
You ought to see their wide-brimmed Texas hats and their
brand-new outfits and their four-dollar shoes, imported
from the U. S. A."
As they retailed the wonders of Villa and his men,
Natera's men gazed at one another ruefully, aware that
their own hats were rotten from sunlight and moisture,
that their own shirts and trousers were tattered and
barely fit to cover their grimy, lousy bodies.
"There's no such a thing as hunger up there. They
carry boxcars full of oxen, sheep, cows! They've got cars
full of clothing, trains full of guns, ammunition, food
enough to make a man burst!"
Then they spoke of Villa's airplanes.
"Christ, those planes! You know when they're close
to you, be damned if you know what the hell they are!
They look like small boats, you know, or tiny rafts . . .
and then pretty soon they begin to rise, making a hell of
a row. Something like an automobile going sixty miles an
hour. Then they're like great big birds that don't even
seem to move sometimes. But there's a joker! The Goddamn
things have got some American fellow inside with
hand grenades by the thousand. Now you try and figure
what that means! The fight is on, see? You know how
a farmer feeds corn to his chickens, huh? Well, the American
throws his lead bombs at the enemy just like that.
Pretty soon the whole damn field is nothing but a graveyard
. . . dead men all over the dump . . . dead men here
. . . dead men there . . . dead men everywhere!"
Anastasio Montanez questioned the speaker more particularly.
It was not long before he realized that all this
high praise was hearsay and that not a single man in
Natera's army had ever laid eyes on Villa.
"Well, when you get down to it, I guess it doesn't mean
so much! No man's got much more guts than any other
man, if you ask me. All you need to be a good fighter is
pride, that's all. I'm not a professional soldier even though
I'm dressed like hell, but let me tell you. I'm not forced
to do this kind of bloody job, because I own . . ."
"Because I own over twenty oxen, whether you believe
it or not!" Quail said, mocking Anastasio.
XXI
The firing lessened, then slowly died out. Luis Cervantes,
who had been hiding amid a heap of ruins at the
fortification on the crest of the hill, made bold to show
his face. How he had managed to hang on, he did not
know. Nor did he know when Demetrio and his men had
disappeared. Suddenly he had found himself alone; then,
hurled back by an avalanche of infantry, he fell from his
saddle; a host of men trampled over him until he rose
from the ground and a man on horseback hoisted him
up behind him. After a few moments, horse and riders
fell. Left without rifle, revolver, or arms of any kind, Cervantes
found himself lost in the midst of white smoke and
whistling bullets. A hole amid a debris of crumbling
stone offered a refuge of safety.
"Hello, partner!"
"Luis, how are you!"
"The horse threw me. They fell upon me. Then they
took my gun away. You see, they thought I was dead.
There was nothing I could do!" Luis Cervantes explained
apologetically. Then:
"Nobody threw me down," Solis said. "I'm here because
I like to play safe."
The irony in Solis' voice brought a blush to Cervantes'
cheek.
"By God, that chief of yours is a man!" Solis said.
"What daring, what assurance! He left me gasping--and a
hell of a lot of other men with more experience than me,
too!"
Luis Cervantes vouchsafed no answer.
"What! Weren't you there? Oh, I see! You found a
nice place for yourself at the right time. Come here, Luis,
I'll explain; let's go behind that rock. From this meadow
to the foot of the hill, there's no road save this path below.
To the right, the incline is too sharp; you can't do
anything there. And it's worse to the left; the ascent is so
dangerous that a second's hesitation means a fall down
those rocks and a broken neck at the end of it. All right!
A number of men from Moya's brigade who went down to
the meadow decided to attack the enemy's trenches the
first chance they got. The bullets whizzed about us, the
battle raged on all sides. For a time they stopped firing,
so we thought they were being attacked from behind. We
stormed their trenches--look, partner, look at that
meadow! It's thick with corpses! Their machine guns did
that for us. They mowed us down like wheat; only a handful
escaped. Those Goddamned officers went white as a
sheet; even though we had reinforcements they were
afraid to order a new charge. That was when Demetrio
Macias plunged in. Did he wait for orders? Not he! He
just shouted:
" 'Come on, boys! Let's go for them!'
"'Damn fool!' I thought. 'What the hell does he think
he's doing!'
"The officers, surprised, said nothing. Demetrio's
horse seemed to wear eagle's claws instead of hoofs, it
soared so swiftly over the rocks. 'Come on! Come on!' his
men shouted, following him like wild deer, horses and
men welded into a mad stampede. Only one young fellow
stepped wild and fell headlong into the pit. In a few seconds
the others appeared at the top of the hill, storming
the trenches and killing the Federals by the thousand.
With his rope, Demetrio lassoed the machine guns and
carried them off, like a bull herd throwing a steer. Yet his
success could not last much longer, for the Federals
were far stronger in numbers and could easily have destroyed
Demetrio and his men. But we took advantage of
their confusion, we rushed upon them and they soon
cleared out of their position. That chief of yours is a
wonderful soldier!"
Standing on the crest of the hill, they could easily
sight one side of the Bufa peak. Its highest crag spread out
like the feathered head of a proud Aztec king. The threehundred-
foot slope was literally covered with dead, their
hair matted, their clothes clotted with grime and blood.
A host of ragged women, vultures of prey, ranged over
the tepid bodies of the dead, stripping one man bare, despoiling
another, robbing from a third his dearest possessions.
Amid clouds of white rifle smoke and the dense black
vapors of flaming buildings, houses with wide doors and
windows bolted shone in the sunlight. The streets seemed
to be piled upon one another, or wound picturesquely
about fantastic corners, or set to scale the hills nearby.
Above the graceful cluster of houses, rose the lithe
columns of a warehouse and the towers and cupola of the
church.
"How beautiful the revolution! Even in its most barbarous
aspect it is beautiful," Solis said with deep feeling.
Then a vague melancholy seized him, and speaking
low:
"A pity what remains to do won't be as beautiful! We
must wait a while, until there are no men left to fight
on either side, until no sound of shot rings through the
air save from the mob as carrion-like it falls upon the
booty; we must wait until the psychology of our race, condensed
into two words, shines clear and luminous as a
drop of water: Robbery! Murder! What a colossal failure
we would make of it, friend, if we, who offer our enthusiasm
and lives to crush a wretched tyrant, became the
builders of a monstrous edifice holding one hundred or
two hundred thousand monsters of exactly the same sort.
People without ideals! A tyrant folk! Vain bloodshed!"
Large groups of Federals pushed up the hill, fleeing
from the "high hats." A bullet whistled past them, singing
as it sped. After his speech, Alberto Solis stood lost in
thought, his arms crossed. Suddenly, he took fright.
"I'll be damned if I like these plaguey mosquitoes!" he
said. "Let's get away from here!"
So scornfully Luis Cervantes smiled that Solis sat
down on a rock quite calm, bewildered. He smiled. His
gaze roved as he watched the spirals of smoke from the
rifles, the dust of roofs crumbling from houses as they
fell before the artillery. He believed he discerned the symbol
of the revolution in these clouds of dust and smoke
that climbed upward together, met at the crest of the hill
and, a moment after, were lost. . . .
"By heaven, now I see what it all means!"
He sketched a vast gesture, pointing to the station.
Locomotives belched huge clouds of black dense smoke
rising in columns; the trains were overloaded with fugitives
who had barely managed to escape from the captured
town.
Suddenly he felt a sharp blow in the stomach. As though
his legs were putty, he rolled off the rock. His ears buzzed. . . Then darkness . . . silence . . .
eternity. . . .
PART TWO
Demetrio, nonplussed, scratched his head: "Look
here, don't ask me any more questions. . . . You gave me
the eagle I wear on my hat, didn't you? All right then;
you just tell me: 'Demetrio, do this or do that,' and that's
all there is to it."
To champagne, that sparkles and foams as the beaded
bubbles burst at the brim of the glass, Demetrio preferred
the native tequila, limpid and fiery.
The soldiers sat in groups about the tables in the restaurant,
ragged men, filthy with sweat, dirt and smoke,
their hair matted, wild, disheveled.
"I killed two colonels," one man clamored in a guttural
harsh voice. He was a small fat fellow, with embroidered
hat and chamois coat, wearing a light purple handkerchief
about his neck.
"They were so Goddamned fat they couldn't even run.
By God, I wish you could have seen them, tripping and
stumbling at every step they took, climbing up the hill,
red as tomatoes, their tongues hanging out like hounds.
'Don't run so fast, you lousy beggars!' I called after them.
'I'm not so fond of frightened geese--stop, You baldheaded
bastards: I won't harm you! You needn't worry!'
By God, they certainly fell for it. Pop, pop! One shot for
each of them, and a well-earned rest for a pair of poor
sinners, be damned to them!"
"I couldn't get a single one of their generals!" said a
swarthy man who sat in one corner between the wall
and the bar, holding his rifle between his outstretched
legs. "I sighted one: a fellow with a hell of a lot of gold
plastered all over him. His gold chevrons shone like a
Goddamned sunset. And I let him go by, fool that I was.
He took off his handkerchief and waved it. I stood there
with my mouth wide open like a fool! Then I ducked
and he started shooting, bullet after bullet. I let him kill
a poor cargador. Then I said: 'My turn, now! Holy Virgin,
Mother of God! Don't let me miss this son of a
bitch.' But, by Christ, he disappeared. He was riding
a hell of a fine nag; he went by me like lightning! There
was another poor fool coming up the road. He got it and
turned the prettiest somersault you ever saw!"
Talk flew from lip to lip, each soldier vying with his
fellow, snatching the words from the other's mouth. As
they declaimed passionately, women with olive, swarthy
skins, bright eyes, and teeth of ivory, with revolvers at
their waists, cartridge-belts across their breasts, and broad
Mexican hats on their heads, wove their way like stray
street curs in and out among groups. A vulgar wench,
with rouged cheeks and dark brown arms and neck,
gave a great leap and landed on the bar near Demetrio's
table.
He turned his head toward her and literally collided
with a pair of lubric eyes under a narrow forehead and
thick, straight hair, parted in the middle.
The door opened wide. Anastasio, Pancracio, Quail,
and Meco filed in, dazed.
Anastasio uttered a cry of surprise and stepped forward
to shake hands with the little fat man wearing a
charro suit and a lavender bandanna. A pair of old
friends, met again. So warm was their embrace, so tightly
they clutched each other that the blood rushed to their
heads, they turned purple.
"Look here, Demetrio, I want the honor of introducing
you to Blondie. He's a real friend, you know. I love him
like a brother. You must get to know him, Chief, he's
a man! Do you remember that damn jail at Escobedo,
where we stayed together for over a year?"
Without removing his cigar from his lips, Demetrio,
buried in a sullen silence amid the bustle and uproar,
offered his hand and said:
"I'm delighted to meet you!"
"So your name is Demetrio Macias?" the girl asked
suddenly. Seated on the bar, she swung her legs; at
every swing, the toes of her shoes touched Demetrio's
back.
"Yes: I'm Demetrio Macias!" he said, scarcely turning
toward her.
Indifferently, she continued to swing her legs, displaying
her blue stockings with ostentation.
"Hey, War Paint, what are you doing here? Step down
and have a drink!" said the man called Blondie.
The girl accepted readily and boldly thrust her way
through the crowd to a chair facing Demetrio.
"So you're the famous Demetrio Macias, the hero of
Zacatecas?" the girl asked.
Demetrio bowed assent, while Blondie, laughing, said:
"You're a wise one, War Paint. You want to sport a
general!"
Without understanding Blondie's words, Demetrio
raised his eyes to hers; they gazed at each other like two
dogs sniffing one another with distrust. Demetrio could not
resist her furiously provocative glances; he was forced to
lower his eyes.
From their seats, some of Natera's officers began to
hurl obscenities at War Paint. Without paying the slightest
attention, she said:
"General Natera is going to hand you out a little
general's eagle. Put it here and shake on it, boy!"
She stuck out her hand at Demetrio and shook it with
the strength of a man. Demetrio, melting to the congratulations
raining down upon him, ordered champagne.
"I don't want no more to drink," Blondie said to the
waiter, "I'm feeling sick. Just bring me some ice water."
"I want something to eat," said Pancracio. "Bring me
anything you've got but don't make it chili or beans!"
Officers kept coming in; presently the restaurant was
crowded. Small stars, bars, eagles and insignia of every
sort or description dotted their hats. They wore wide silk
bandannas around their necks, large diamond rings on
their fingers, large heavy gold watch chains across their
breasts.
"Here, waiter," Blondie cried, "I ordered ice water.
And I'm not begging for it either, see? Look at this bunch
of bills. I'll buy you, your wife, and all you possess,
see? Don't tell me there's none left--I don't care a damn
about that! It's up to you to find some way to get it and
Goddamned quick, too. I don't like to play about; I get
mad when I'm crossed. . . . By God, didn't I tell you I
wouldn't stand for any backchat? You won't bring it to
me, eh? Well, take this. . . ."
A heavy blow sent the waiter reeling to the floor.
"That's the sort of man I am, General Macias! I'm
clean-shaven, eh? Not a hair on my chin? Do you know
why? Well, I'll tell you! You see I get mad easy as hell;
and when there's nobody to pick on, I pull my hair until
my temper passes. If I hadn't pulled my beard hair by
hair, I'd have died a long time ago from sheer anger!"
"It does you no good to go to pieces when you're
angry," a man affirmed earnestly from below a hat that
covered his head as a roof does a house. "When I was
up at Torreon I killed an old lady who refused to sell
me some enchiladas. She was angry, I can tell you; I
got no enchiladas but I felt satisfied anyhow!"
"I killed a storekeeper at Parral because he gave me
some change and there were two Huerta bills in it," said
a man with a star on his hat and precious stones on his
black, calloused hands.
"Down in Chihuahua I killed a man because I always
saw him sitting at the table whenever I went to eat. I
hated the looks of him so I just killed him! What the hell
could I do!"
"Hmm! I killed. . . .
The theme is inexhaustible.
By dawn, when the restaurant was wild with joy and
the floor dotted with spittle, young painted girls from the
suburbs had mingled freely among the dark northern
women. Demetrio pulled out his jeweled gold watch, asking
Anastasio Montanez to tell him the time.
Anastasio glanced at the watch, then, poking his head
out of a small window, gazed at the starry sky.
"The Pleiades are pretty low in the west. I guess it
won't be long now before daybreak. . . ."
Outside the restaurant, the shouts, laughter and song
of the drunkards rang through the air. Men galloped wildly
down the streets, the hoofs of their horses hammering
on the sidewalks. From every quarter of the town pistols
spoke, guns belched. Demetrio and the girl called
War Paint staggered tipsily hand in hand down the center
of the street, bound for the hotel.
II
What damned fools," said War Paint convulsed with
laughter! "Where the hell do you come from?..... Soldiers
don't sleep in hotels and inns any more....... Where do
you come from? You just go anywhere you like and
pick a house that pleases you, see. When you go there,
make yourself at home and don't ask anyone for anything.
What the hell is the use of the revolution? Who's
it for? For the folks who live in towns? We're the city
folk now, see? Come on, Pancracio, hand me your bayonet.
Damn these rich people, they lock up everything
they've got!"
She dug the steel point through the crack of a drawer
and, pressing on the hilt, broke the lock, opened the
splinted cover of a writing desk. Anastasio, Pancracio
and War Paint plunged their hands into a mass of post
cards, photographs, pictures and papers, scattering them
all over the rug. Finding nothing he wanted, Pancracio
gave vent to his anger by kicking a framed photograph
into the air with the toe of his shoe. It smashed on the
candelabra in the center of the room.
They pulled their empty hands out of the heap of paper,
cursing. But War Paint was of sterner stuff; tirelessly she
continued to unlock drawer after drawer without failing
to investigate a single spot. In their absorption, they did
not notice a small gray velvet-covered box which rolled
silently across the floor, coming to a stop at Luis Cervantes'
feet.
Demetrio, lying on the rug, seemed to be asleep; Cervantes,
who had watched everything with profound indifference,
pulled the box closer to him with his foot, and
stooping to scratch his ankle, swiftly picked it up. Something
gleamed up at him, dazzling. It was two pure-water
diamonds mounted in filigreed platinum. Hastily he thrust
them inside his coat pocket.
When Demetrio awoke, Cervantes said:
"General, look at the mess these boys have made
here. Don't you think it would be advisable to forbid this
sort of thing?"
"No. It's about their only pleasure after putting their
bellies up as targets for the enemy's bullets."
"Yes, of course, General, but they could do it somewhere
else. You see, this sort of thing hurts our prestige,
and worse, our cause!"
Demetrio leveled his eagle eyes at Cervantes. He
drummed with his fingernails against his teeth, absentmindedly.
Then:
"Come along, now, don't blush," he said. "You can
talk like that to someone else. We know what's mine is
mine, what's yours is yours. You picked the box, all
right; I picked my gold watch; all right too!"
His words dispelled any pretense. Both of them, in
perfect harmony, displayed their booty.
War Paint and her companions were ransacking the
rest of the house. Quail entered the room with a twelveyear-
old girl upon whose forehead and arms were already
marked copper-colored spots. They stopped short,
speechless with surprise as they saw the books lying in
piles on the floor, chairs and tables, the large mirrors
thrown to the ground, smashed, the huge albums and
the photographs torn into shreds, the furniture, objets
d'art and bric-a-brac broken. Quail held his breath, his
avid eyes scouring the room for booty.
Outside, in one corner of the patio, lost in dense clouds
of suffocating smoke, Manteca was boiling corn on the
cob, feeding his fire with books and paper that made
the flames leap wildly through the air.
"Hey!" Quail shouted. "Look what I found. A fine
sweat-cover for my mare."
With a swift pull he wrenched down a hanging, which
fell over a handsomely carved upright chair.
"Look, look at all these naked women!" Quail's little
companion cried, enchanted at a de luxe edition of
Dante's Divine Comedy. "I like this; I think I'll take it
along."
She began to tear out the illustrations which pleased
her most.
Demetrio crossed the room and sat down beside Luis
Cervantes. He ordered some beer, handed one bottle up
to his secretary, downed his own bottle at one gulp.
Then, drowsily, he half closed his eyes, and soon fell
sound asleep.
"Hey!" a man called to Pancracio from the threshold.
"When can I see your general?"
"You can't see him. He's got a hangover this morning.
What the hell do you want?"
"I want to buy some of those books you're burning."
"I'll sell them to you myself."
"How much do you want for them?"
Pancracio frowned in bewilderment.
"Give me a nickel for those with pictures, see. I'll
give you the rest for nothing if you buy all those with pictures."
The man returned with a large basket to carry away
the books. . . .
"Come on, Demetrio, come on, you pig, get up! Look
who's here! It's Blondie. You don't know what a fine
man he is!"
"I like you very much, General Macias, and I like
the way you do things. So if it's all right, I'd like very
much to serve under you!"
"What's your rank?" Demetrio asked him.
"I'm a captain, General."
"All right, you can serve with me now. I'll make you
major. How's that?"
Blondie was a round little fellow, with waxed mustache.
When he laughed, his blue eyes disappeared mischievously
between his forehead and his fat cheeks. He
had been a waiter at "El Monico," in Chihuahua; now
he proudly wore three small brass bars, the insignia of
his rank in the Northern Division.
Blondie showered eulogy after eulogy on Demetrio and
his men; this proved sufficient reason for bringing out a
fresh case of beer, which was finished in short order.
Suddenly War Paint reappeared in the middle of the
room, wearing a beautiful silk dress covered with exquisite
lace.
"You forgot the stockings," Blondie shouted, shaking
with laughter. Quail's girl also burst out laughing. But
War Paint did not care. She shrugged her shoulders indifferently,
sat down on the floor, kicked off her white
satin slippers, and wiggled her toes happily, giving their
muscles a freedom welcome after their tight confinement
in the slippers. She said:
"Hey, you, Pancracio, go and get me my blue stockings
. . . they're with the rest of my plunder."
Soldiers and their friends, companions and veterans of
other campaigns, began to enter in groups of twos and
threes. Demetrio, growing excited, began to narrate in
detail his most notable feats of arms.
"What the hell is that noise?" he asked in surprise as
he heard string and brass instruments tuning up in the
patio.
"General Demetrio Macias," Luis Cervantes said
solemnly, "it's a banquet all of your old friends and followers
are giving in your honor to celebrate your victory
at Zacatecas and your well-merited promotion to the
rank of general!"
III
General Macias, I want you to meet my future wife,"
Luis Cervantes said with great emphasis as he
led a beautiful girl into the dining room.
They all turned to look at her. Her large blue eyes
grew wide in wonder. She was barely fourteen. Her skin
was like a rose, soft, pink, fresh; her hair was very fair;
the expression in her eyes was partly impish curiosity,
partly a vague childish fear. Perceiving that Demetrio
eyed her like a beast of prey, Luis Cervantes congratulated
himself.
They made room for her between Luis Cervantes and
Blondie, opposite Demetrio.
Bottles of tequila, dishes of cut glass, bowls, porcelains
and vases lay scattered over the table indiscriminately.
Meco, carrying a box of beer upon his shoulders, came in
cursing and sweating.
"You don't know this fellow Blondie yet," said War
Paint, noticing the persistent glances he was casting at
Luis Cervantes' bride. "He's a smart fellow, I can tell
you, and he never misses a trick."
She gazed at him lecherously, adding:
"That's why I don't like to see him close, even on a
photograph!"
The orchestra struck up a raucous march as though
they were playing at a bullfight. The soldiers roared with
joy.
"What fine tripe, General; I swear I haven't tasted the
like of it in all my life," Blondie said, as he began to
reminisce about "El Monico" at Chihuahua.
"You really like it, Blondie?" responded Demetrio.
"Go ahead, call for more, eat your bellyful."
"It's just the way I like it," Anastasio chimed in. "Yes,
I like good food! But nothing really tastes good to you
unless you belch!"
The noise of mouths being filled, of ravenous feeding
followed. All drank copiously. At the end of the dinner,
Luis Cervantes rose, holding a champagne glass in one
hand, and said:
"General. . ."
"Ho!" War Paint interrupted. "This speech-making business
isn't for me; I'm all against it. I'll go out to the
corral since there's no more eating here."
Presenting Demetrio with a black velvet-covered box
containing a small brass eagle, Luis Cervantes made a
toast which no one understood but everyone applauded
enthusiastically. Demetrio took the insignia in his hands;
and with flushed face, and eyes shining, declared with
great candor:
"What in hell am I going to do with this buzzard!"
"Compadre," Anastasio Montanez said in a tremulous
voice. "I ain't got much to tell you. . . ."
Whole minutes elapsed between his words; the cursed
words would not come to Anastasio. His face, coated
with filth, unwashed for days, turned crimson, shining
with perspiration. Finally he decided to finish his toast
at all costs. "Well, I ain't got much to tell you, except
that we are pals. . . ."
Then, since everyone had applauded at the end of Luis
Cervantes' speech, Anastasio having finished, made a
sign, and the company clapped their hands in great gravity.
But everything turned out for the best, since his awkwardness
inspired others. Manteca and Quail stood up
and made their toasts, too. When Meco's turn came, War
Paint rushed in shouting jubilantly, attempting to drag a
splendid black horse into the dining room.
"My booty! My booty!" she cried, patting the superb
animal on the neck. It resisted every effort she made until
a strong jerk of the rope and a sudden lash brought it in
prancing smartly. The soldiers, half drunk, stared at the
beast with ill-disguised envy.
"I don't know what the hell this she-devil's got, but
she always beats everybody to it," cried Blondie. "She's
been the same ever since she joined us at Tierra Blanca!"
"Hey, Pancracio, bring me some alfalfa for my horse,"
War Paint commanded crisply, throwing the horse's rope
to one of the soldiers.
Once more they filled their glasses. Many a head hung
low with fatigue or drunkenness. Most of the company,
however, shouted with glee, including Luis Cervantes'
girl. She had spilled all her wine on a handkerchief and
looked all about her with blue wondering eyes.
"Boys," Blondie suddenly screamed, his shrill, guttural
voice dominating the mall, "I'm tired of living; I feel like
killing myself right now. I'm sick and tired of War Paint
and this other little angel from heaven won't even look at
me !"
Luis Cervantes saw that the last remark was addressed
to his bride; with great surprise he realized that it was
not Demetrio's foot he had noticed close to the girl's,
but Blondie's. He was boiling with indignation.
"Keep your eye on me, boys," Blondie went on, gun
in hand. "I'm going to shoot myself right in the forehead!"
He aimed at the large mirror on the opposite wall
which gave back his whole body in reflection. He took
careful aim. . . .
"Don't move, War Paint."
The bullet whizzed by, grazing War Paint's hair. The
mirror broke into large jagged fragments. She did not
even so much as blink.
IV
Late in the afternoon Luis Cervantes rubbed his eyes
and sat up. He had been sleeping on the hard pavement,
close to the trunk of a fruit tree. Anastasio, Pancracio
and Quail slept nearby, breathing heavily.
His lips were swollen, his nose dry and cold. There were
bloodstains on his hands and shirt. At once he recalled
what had taken place. Soon he rose to his feet and made
for one of the bedrooms. He pushed at the door several
times without being able to force it open. For a few minutes
he stood there, hesitating.
No--he had not dreamed it. Everything had really occurred
just as he recalled it. He had left the table with
his bride and taken her to the bedroom, but just as he
was closing the door, Demetrio staggered after them
and made one leap toward them. Then War Paint dashed
in after Demetrio and began to struggle with him. Demetrio,
his eyes white-hot, his lips covered with long blond
hairs, looked for the bride, in despair. But War Paint
pushed him back vigorously.
"What the hell is the matter with you? What the hell
are you trying to do?" he demanded, furious.
War Paint put her leg between his, twisted it suddenly,
and Demetrio fell to the ground outside of the bedroom.
He rose, raging.
"Help! Help! He's going to kill me!" she cried, seizing
Demetrio's wrist and turning the gun aside. The bullet
hit the floor. War Paint continued to shriek. Anastasio disarmed
Demetrio from behind.
Demetrio, standing like a furious bull in the middle of
the arena, cast fierce glances at all the bystanders, Luis
Cervantes, Anastasio, Manteca, and the others.
"Goddamn you! You've taken my gun away! Christ!
As if I needed any gun to beat the hell out of you."
Flinging out his arms, beating and pummeling, he felled
everyone within reach. Down they rolled like tenpins.
Then, after that, Luis Cervantes could remember nothing
more. Perhaps his bride, terrified by all these brutes, had
wisely vanished and hidden herself.
"Perhaps this bedroom communicates with the living
room and I can go in through there," he thought, standing
at the threshold. At the sound of his footsteps, War
Paint woke up. She lay on the rug close to Demetrio at
the foot of a couch filled with alfalfa and corn where the
black horse had fed.
"What are you looking for? Oh, hell, I know what you
want! Shame on you! Why, I had to lock up your sweetheart
because I couldn't struggle any more against this
damned Demetrio. Take the key, it's lying on that table,
there!"
Luis Cervantes searched in vain all over the house.
"Come on, tell me all about your girl."
Nervously, Luis Cervantes continued to look for the key.
"Come on, don't be in such a hurry, I'll give it to you.
Come along, tell me; I like to hear about these things,
you know. That girl is your kind, she's not a country person
like us."
"I've nothing to say. She's my girl and we're going to
get married, that's all."
"Ho! Ho! Ho! You're going to marry her, eh? Trying
to teach your grandmother to suck eggs, eh? Why, you
fool, any place you just manage to get to for the first
time in your life, I've left a hundred miles behind me, see.
I've cut my wisdom teeth. It was Meco and Manteca who
took the girl from her home: I knew that all the time.
You just gave them something so as to have her yourself,
gave them a pair of cuff links . . . or a miraculous
picture of some Virgin. . . . Am I right? Sure, I am!
There aren't so many people in the world who know
what's what, but I reckon you'll meet up with a few before
you die!"
War Paint got up to give him the key but she could
not find it either. She was much surprised. Quickly, she
ran to the bedroom door and peered through the keyhole,
standing motionless until her eye grew accustomed
to the darkness within. Without drawing away, she said:
"You damned Blondie. Son of a bitch! Come here a
minute, look!"
She went away laughing.
"Didn't I tell them all I'd never seen a smarter fellow
in all my life!"
The following morning, War Paint watched for the moment
when Blondie left the bedroom to feed his
horses. . . .
"Come on, Angel Face. Run home quick!"
The blue-eyed girl, with a face like a Madonna, stood
naked save for her chemise and stockings. War Paint
covered her with Manteca's lousy blanket, took her by the
hand and led her to the street.
"God, I'm happy," War Paint cried. "I'm crazy . . .
about Blondie . . . now."
V
Like neighing colts, playful when the rainy season
begins, Demetrio's men galloped through the sierra.
"To Moyahua, boys. Let's go to Demetrio Macias'
country!"
"To the country of Monico the cacique!"
The landscape grew clearer; the sun margined the
diaphanous sky with a fringe of crimson. Like the bony
shoulders of immense sleeping monsters, the chains of
mountains rose in the distance. Crags there were like
heads of colossal native idols; others like giants' faces,
their grimaces awe-inspiring or grotesque, calling forth
a smile or a shudder at a presentment of mystery.
Demetrio Macias rode at the head of his men; behind
him the members of his staff: Colonel Anastasio
Montanez, Lieutenant-Colonel Pancracio, Majors Luis
Cervantes and Blondie. Still further behind came War
Paint with Venancio, who paid her many compliments
and recited the despairing verses of Antonio Plaza. As
the sun's rays began to slip from the housetops, they
made their entrance into Moyahua, four abreast, to the
sound of the bugle. The roosters' chorus was deafening,
dogs barked their alarm, but not a living soul stirred
on the streets.
War Paint spurred her black horse and with one jump
was abreast with Demetrio. They rode forward, elbow
to elbow. She wore a silk dress and heavy gold earrings.
Proudly her pale blue gown deepened her olive skin and
the coppery spots on her face and arms. Riding astride,
she had pulled her skirts up to her knees; her stockings
showed, filthy and full of runs. She wore a gun at her
side, a cartridge belt hung over the pommel of her saddle.
Demetrio was also dressed in his best clothes. His
broad-brimmed hat was richly embroidered; his leather
trousers were tight-fitting and adorned with silver buttons;
his coat was embroidered with gold thread.
There was a sound of doors being beaten down and
forced open. The soldiers had already scattered through
the town, to gather together ammunition and saddles
from everywhere.
"We're going to bid Monico good morning," Demetrio
said gravely, dismounting and tossing his bridle to
one of his men. "We're going to have breakfast with
Don Monico, who's a particular friend of mine . . . ."
The general's staff smiled . . . a sinister, malign
smile. . . .
Making their spurs ring against the pavement, they
walked toward a large pretentious house, obviously that
of a cacique.
"It's closed airtight," Anastasio Montanez said, pushing
the door with all his might.
"That's all right. I'll open it," Pancracio answered,
lowering his rifle and pointing it at the lock.
"No, no," Demetrio said, "knock first."
Three blows with the butt of the rifle. Three more.
No answer. Pancracio disobeys orders. He fires, smashing
the lock. The door opens. Behind, a confusion of
skirts and children's bare legs rushing to and fro, pellmell.
"I want wine. Hey, there: wine!" Demetrio cries in an
imperious voice, pounding heavily on a table.
"Sit down, boys."
A lady peeps out, another, a third; from among black
skirts, the heads of frightened children. One of the
women, trembling, walks toward a cupboard and, taking
out some glasses and a bottle, serves wine.
"What arms have you?" Demetrio demands harshly.
"Arms, arms . . . ?" the lady answers, a taste of
ashes on her tongue. "What arms do you expect us to
have! We are respectable, lonely old ladies!"
"Lonely, eh! Where's Senor Monico?"
"Oh, he's not here, gentlemen, I assure you! We merely
rent the house from him, you see. We only know
him by name!"
Demetrio orders his men to search the house.
"No, please don't. We'll bring you whatever we have
ourselves, but please for God's sake, don't do anything
cruel. We're spinsters, lone women . . . perfectly respectable.
. . ."
"Spinsters, hell! What about these kids here?" Pancracio
interrupts brutally. "Did they spring from the
earth?"
The women disappear hurriedly, to return with an old
shotgun, covered with dust and cobwebs, and a pistol
with rusty broken springs.
Demetrio smiles.
"All right, then, let's see the money.
"Money? Money? But what money do you think a
couple of spinsters have? Spinsters alone in the
world. . . . ?"
They glance up in supplication at the nearest soldier;
but they are seized with horror. For they have just seen
the Roman soldier who crucified Our Lord in the Via
Crucis of the parish! They have seen Pancracio!
Demetrio repeats his order to search.
Once again the women disappear to return this time
with a moth-eaten wallet containing a few Huerta bills.
Demetrio smiles and without further delay calls to his
men to come in. Like hungry dogs who have sniffed their
meat, the mob bursts in, trampling down the women who
sought to bar the entrance with their bodies. Several
faint, fall to the ground; others flee in panic. The children
scream.
Pancracio is about to break the lock of a huge wardrobe
when suddenly the doors open and out comes a
man with a rifle in his hands.
"Senor Don Monico!" they all exclaim in surprise.
"Demetrio, please, don't harm me! Please don't harm
me! Please don't hurt me! You know, Senor Don Demetrio,
I'm your friend!"
Demetrio Macias smiles slyly. "Are friends," he
asked, "usually welcomed gun in hand?"
Don Monico, in consternation, throws himself at
Demetrio's feet, clasps his knees, kisses his shoes:
"My wife! . . . My children! . . . Please, Senor Don
Demetrio, my friend!"
Demetrio with taut hand puts his gun back in the
holster.
A painful silhouette crosses his mind. He sees a
woman with a child in her arms walking over the rocks
of the sierra in the moonlight. A house in flames. . . .
"Clear out. Everybody outside!" he orders darkly.
His staff obeys. Monico and the ladies kiss his hands,
weeping with gratitude. The mob in the street, talking
and laughing, stands waiting for the general's permission
to ransack the cacique's house.
"I know where they've buried their money but I won't
tell," says a youngster with a basket in his hands.
"Hm! I know the right place, mind you," says an old
woman carrying a burlap sack to hold whatever the good
Lord will provide. "It's on top of something . . . there's
a lot of trinkets nearby and then there's a small bag
with mother-of-pearl around it. That's the thing to look
for!"
"You ain't talking sense, woman," puts in a man.
"They ain't such fools as to leave silver lying loose like
that. I'm thinking they've got it buried in the well, in a
leather bag."
The mob moves slowly; some carry ropes to tie about
their bundles, others wooden trays. The women open
out their aprons or shawls calculating their capacity. All
give thanks to Divine Providence as they wait for their
share of the booty.
When Demetrio announces that he will not allow looting
and orders them to disband, the mob, disconsolate,
obeys him, and soon scatters; but there is a dull rumor
among the soldiers and no one moves from his place.
Annoyed, Demetrio repeats this order.
A young man, a recent recruit, his head turned by
drink, laughs and walks boldly toward the door. But before
he has reached the threshold, a shot lays him low.
He falls like a bull pierced in the neck by the matador's
sword. Motionless, his smoking gun in his hand, Demetrio
waits for the soldiers to withdraw.
"Set fire to the house!" he orders Luis Cervantes
when they reach their quarters.
With a curious eagerness Luis Cervantes does not transmit
the order but undertakes the task in person.
Two hours later when the city square was black with
smoke and enormous tongues of fire rose from Monico's
house, no one could account for the strange behavior of
the general.
VI
They established themselves in a large gloomy house,
which likewise belonged to the cacique of Moyahua. The
previous occupants had already left strong evidences in
the patio, which had been converted into a manure pile.
The walls, once whitewashed, were now faded and
cracked, revealing the bare unbaked adobe; the floor had
been torn up by the hoofs of animals; the orchard was
littered with rotted branches and dead leaves. From
the entrance one stumbled over broken bits of chairs
and other furniture covered with dirt.
By ten o'clock, Luis Cervantes yawned with boredom,
said good night to Blondie and War Paint, who were
downing endless drinks on a bench in the square, and
made for the barracks. The drawing room was alone furnished.
As he entered, Demetrio, lying on the floor with
his eyes wide open, trying to count the beams, gazed
at him.
"It' s you, eh? What's new? Come on, sit down."
Luis Cervantes first went over to trim the candle, then
drew up a chair without a back, a coarse rag doing
the duty of a wicker bottom. The legs of the chair
squeaked. War Paint's black horse snorted and whirled
its crupper in wide circles. Luis Cervantes sank into his
seat.
"General, I wish to make my report. Here you
have . . ."
"Look here, man, I didn't really want this done, you
know. Moyahua is almost like my native town. They'll
say this is why we've been fighting!" Demetrio said, looking
at the bulging sack of silver Cervantes was passing
to him. Cervantes left his seat to squat down by Demetrio's
side.
He stretched a blanket over the floor and into it
poured the ten-peso pieces, shining, burning gold.
"First of all, General, only you and I know about
this. . . . Secondly, you know well enough that if the
sun shines, you should open the window. It's shining in
our faces now but what about tomorrow? You should
always look ahead. A bullet, a bolting horse, even a
wretched cold in the head, and then there are a widow
and orphans left in absolute want! . . . The Government?
Ha! Ha! . . . Just go see Carranza or Villa or
any of the big chiefs and try and tell them about your
family. . . . If they answer with a kick you know where,
they'll say they're giving you a handful of jewels. And
they're right; we did not rise up in arms to make some
Carranza or Villa President of our Republic. No--we
fought to defend the sacred rights of the people against
the tyranny of some vile cacique. And so, just as Villa
or Carranza aren't going to ask our consent to the payment
they're getting for the services they're rendering
the country, we for our part don't have to ask anybody's
permission about anything either."
Demetrio half stood up, grasped a bottle that stood
nearby, drained it, then spat out the liquor, swelling out
his cheeks.
"By God, my boy, you've certainly got the gift of
gab!"
Luis felt dizzy, faint. The spattered beer seemed to
intensify the stench of the refuse on which they sat; a
carpet of orange and banana peels, fleshlike slices of
watermelon, moldy masses of mangoes and sugarcane, all
mixed up with cornhusks from tamales and human offal.
Demetrio's calloused hands shuffled through the brilliant
coins, counting and counting. Recovering from his
nausea, Luis Cervantes pulled out a small box of Fallieres
phosphate and poured forth rings, brooches, pendants,
and countless valuable jewels.
"Look here, General, if this mess doesn't blow over
(and it doesn't look as though it would), if the revolution
keeps on, there's enough here already for us to live
on abroad quite comfortably."
Demetrio shook his bead.
"You wouldn't do that!"
"Why not? What are we staying on for? . . . What
cause are we defending now?"
"That's something I can't explain, Tenderfoot. But I'm
thinking it wouldn't show much guts."
"Take your choice, General," said Luis Cervantes,
pointing to the jewels which he had set in a row.
"Oh, you keep it all. . . . Certainly! . . . You know, I
don't really care for money at all. I'll tell you the truth!
I'm the happiest man in the world, so long as there's
always something to drink and a nice little wench that
catches my eye. . . ."
"Ha! Ha! You make the funniest jokes, General. Why
do you stand for that snake of a War Paint, then?"
"I'll tell you, Tenderfoot, I'm fed up with her. But
I'm like that: I just can't tell her so. I'm not brave
enough to tell her to go plumb to hell. That's the way
I am, see? When I like a woman, I get plain silly; and
if she doesn't start something, I've not got the courage
to do anything myself." He sighed. "There's Camilla at
the ranch for instance. . . . Now, she's not much on
looks, I know, but there's a woman I'd like to
have.......
"Well, General, we'll go and get her any day you
like."
Demetrio winked maliciously.
"I promise you I'll do it."
"Are you sure? Do you really mean it? Look here, if
you pull that off for me, I'll give you the watch and
chain you're hankering after."
Luis Cervantes' eyes shone. He took the phosphate box,
heavy with its contents, and stood up smiling.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said. "Good night, General!
Sleep well."
VII
I don't know any more about it than you do. The
General told me, 'Quail, saddle your horse and my black
mare and follow Cervantes; he's going on an errand for
me.' Well, that's what happened. We left here at noon,
and reached the ranch early that evening. One-eyed
Maria Antonia took us in. . . . She asked after you,
Pancracio. Next morning Luis Cervantes wakes me up.
'Quail, Quail, saddle the horses. Leave me mine but take
the General's mare back to Moyahua. I'll catch up after
a bit.' The sun was high when he arrived with Camilla.
She got off and we stuck her on the General's mare."
"Well, and her? What sort of a face did she make
coming back?" one of the men inquired.
"Hum! She was so damned happy she was gabbing
all the way."
"And the tenderfoot?"
"Just as quiet as he always is, you know him."
"I think," Venancio expressed his opinion with great
seriousness, "that if Camilla woke up in the General's
bed, it was just a mistake. We drank a lot, remember!
That alcohol went to our heads; we must have lost our
senses."
"What the hell do you mean: alcohol! It was all
cooked up between Cervantes and the General."
"Certainly! That city dude's nothing but a . . ."
"I don't like to talk about friends behind their backs,"
said Blondie, "but I can tell you this: one of the two
sweethearts he had, one was mine, and the other was
for the General."
They burst into guffaws of laughter.
When War Paint realized what had happened, she
sought out Camilla and spoke with great affection:
"Poor little child! Tell me how all this happened."
Camilla's eyes were red from weeping.
"He lied to me! He lied! He came to the ranch and
he told me, 'Camilla, I came just to get you. Do you
want to go away with me?' You can be sure I wanted
to go with him; when it comes to loving, I adore him.
Yes, I adore him. Look how thin I've grown just pining
away for him. Mornings I used to loathe to grind
corn, Mamma would call me to eat, and anything I
put in my mouth had no taste at all."
Once more she burst into tears, stuffing the corner
of her apron into her mouth to drown her sobs.
"Look here, I'll help you out of this mess. Don't be
silly, child, don't cry. Don't think about the dude any
more! Honest to God, he's not worth it. You surely
know his game, dear? . . . That's the only reason why
the General stands for him. What a goose! . . . All
right, you want to go back home?"
"The Holy Virgin protect me. My mother would beat
me to death!"
"She'll do nothing of the sort. You and I can fix things.
Listen! The soldiers are leaving any moment now. When
Demetrio tells you to get ready, you tell him you feel
pains all over your body as though someone had hit
you; then you lie down and start yawning and shivering.
Then put your hand on your forehead and say, 'I'm
burning up with fever.' I'll tell Demetrio to leave us
both here, that I'll stay to take care of you, that as
soon as you're feeling all right again, we'll catch up with
them. But instead of that, I'll see that you get home
safe and sound."
VIII
The sun had set, the town was lost in the drab melancholy
of its ancient streets amid the frightened silence
of its inhabitants, who had retired very early, when Luis
Cervantes reached Primitivo's general store, his arrival
interrupting a party that promised great doings.
Demetrio was engaged in getting drunk with his old
comrades. The entire space before the bar was occupied.
War Paint and Blondie had tied up their horses outside;
but the other officers had stormed in brutally, horses
and all. Embroidered hats with enormous and concave
brims bobbed up and down everywhere. The horses
wheeled about, prancing; tossing their restive heads; their
fine breed showing in their black eyes, their small ears
and dilating nostrils. Over the infernal din of the drunkards,
the heavy breathing of the horses, the stamp of
their hoofs on the tiled floor, and occasionally a quick,
nervous whinny rang out.
A trivial episode was being commented upon when
Luis Cervantes came in. A man, dressed in civilian
clothes, with a round, black, bloody hole in his forehead,
lay stretched out in the middle of the street, his
mouth gaping. Opinion was at first divided but finally
all concurred with Blondie's sound reasoning. The poor
dead devil lying out there was the church sexton. . . .
But what an idiot! His own fault, of course! Who in
the name of hell could be so foolish as to dress like a
city dude, with trousers, coat, cap, and all? Pancracio
simply could not bear the sight of a city man in front
of him! And that was that!
Eight musicians, playing wind instruments, interrupted
their labors at Cervantes' command. Their faces were
round and red as suns, their eyes popping, for they had
been blowing on their brass instruments since dawn.
"General," Luis said pushing his way through the men
on horseback, "a messenger has arrived with orders to
proceed immediately to the pursuit and capture of
Orozco and his men."
Faces that had been dark and gloomy were now illumined
with joy.
"To Jalisco, boys!" cried Blondie, pounding on the
counter.
"Make ready, all you darling Jalisco girls of my heart,
for I'm coming along too!" Quail shouted, twisting back
the brim of his hat.
The enthusiasm and rejoicing were general. Demetrio's
friends, in the excitement of drunkenness, offered their
services. Demetrio was so happy that he could scarcely
speak. They were going to fight Orozco and his men!
At last, they would pit themselves against real men! At
last they would stop shooting down the Federals like so
many rabbits or wild turkeys.
"If I could get hold of Orozco alive," Blondie said,
"I'd rip off the soles of his feet and make him walk
twenty-four hours over the sierra!"
"Was that the guy who killed Madero?" asked Meco.
"No," Blondie replied solemnly, "but once when I was
a waiter at 'El Monico,' up in Chihuahua, he hit me
in the face!"
"Give Camilla the roan mare," Demetrio ordered Pancracio,
who was already saddling the horses.
"Camilla can't go!" said War Paint promptly.
"Who in hell asked for your opinion?" Demetrio retorted
angrily.
"It's true, isn't it, Camilla? You were sore all over,
weren't you? And you've got a fever right now?"
"Well--anything Demetrio says."
"Don't be a fool! say 'No,' come on, say 'No,"' War
Paint whispered nervously into Camilla's ear.
"I'll tell you, War Paint. . . . It's funny, but I'm beginning
to fall for him. . . . Would you believe it!" Camilla
whispered back.
War Paint turned purple, her cheeks swelled. Without
a word she went out to get her horse that Blondie was
saddling.
IX
A whirlwind of dust, scorching down the road, suddenly
broke into violent diffuse masses; and Demetrio's
army emerged, a chaos of horses, broad chests, tangled
manes, dilated nostrils, oval, wide eyes, hoofs flying in the
air, legs stiffened from endless galloping; and of men
with bronze faces, ivory teeth, and flashing eyes, their
rifles in their hands or slung across the saddles.
Demetrio and Camilla brought up the rear. She was
still nervous, white-lipped and parched; he was angry
at their futile maneuver. For there had been battles, no
followers of Orozco's to be seen. A handful of Federals,
routed. A poor devil of a priest left dangling from a
mesquite; a few dead, scattered over the field, who had
once been united under the archaic slogan, RIGHTS AND
RELIGION, with, on their breasts, the red cloth insignia:
Halt! The Sacred Heart of Jesus is with me!
"One good thing about it is that I've collected all
my back pay," Quail said, exhibiting some gold watches
and rings stolen from the priest's house.
"It's fun fighting this way," Manteca cried, spicing
every other word with an oath. "You know why the hell
you're risking your hide."
In the same hand with which he held the reins, he
clutched a shining ornament that he had torn from one
of the holy statues.
After Quail, an expert in such matters, had examined
Manteca's treasure covetously, he uttered a solemn
guffaw.
"Hell, Your ornament is nothing but tin!"
"Why in hell are you hanging on to that poison?"
Pancracio asked Blondie who appeared dragging a prisoner.
"Do you want to know why? Because it's a long time
since I've had a good look at a man's face when a rope
tightens around his neck!"
The fat prisoner breathed with difficulty as he followed
Blondie on foot; his face was sunburnt, his eyes
red; his forehead beaded with sweat, his wrists tightly
bound together.
"Here, Anastasio, lend me your lasso. Mine's not
strong enough; this bird will bust it. No, by God, I've
changed my mind, friend Federal: think I'll kill you on
the spot, because you are pulling too hard. Look, all the
mesquites are still a long way off and there are no telegraph
poles to hang you to!"
Blondie pulled his gun out, pressed the muzzle against
the prisoner's chest and brought his finger against the
trigger slowly . . . slowly. . . . The prisoner turned pale
as a corpse; his face lengthened; his eyelids were fixed
in a glassy stare. He breathed in agony, his whole body
shook as with ague. Blondie kept his gun in the same
position for a moment long as all eternity. His eyes
shone queerly. An expression of supreme pleasure lit up
his fat puffy face.
"No, friend Federal," he drawled, putting back his
gun into the holster; "I'm not going to kill you just yet.
. . . I'll make you my orderly. You'll see that I'm not so
hardhearted!"
Slyly he winked at his companions. The prisoner had
turned into an animal; he gulped, panting, dry-mouthed.
Camilla, who had witnessed the scene, spurred her horse
and caught up with Demetrio.
"What a brute that Blondie is: you ought to see what
he did to a wretched prisoner," she said. Then she told
Demetrio what had occurred. The latter wrinkled his
brow but made no answer.
War Paint called Camilla aside.
"Hey you . . . what are you gobbling about? Blondie's
my man, understand? From now on, you know how
things are: whatever you've got against him you've got
against me too! I'm warning you."
Camilla, frightened, hurried back to Demetrio's side.
X
The men camped in a meadow, near three small
lone houses standing in a row, their white walls cutting
the purple fringe of the horizon. Demetrio and Camilla
rode toward them. Inside the corral a man, clad in shirt
and trousers of cheap white cloth, sat greedily puffing at
a cornhusk cigarette. Another man sitting beside him
on a flat cut stone was shelling corn. Kicking the air
with one dry, withered leg, the extremity of which was
like a goat's hoof, he frightened the chickens away.
"Hurry up, 'Pifanio," said the man who was smoking,
"the sun has gone down already and you haven't taken
the animals to water."
A horse neighed outside the corral; both men glanced
up in amazement. Demetrio and Camilla were looking
over the corral wall at them.
"I just want a place to sleep for my woman and me,"
Demetrio said reassuringly.
As he explained that he was the chief of a small
army which was to camp nearby that night, the man
smoking, who owned the place, bid them enter with great
deference. He ran to fetch a broom and a pail of water
to dust and wash the best corner of the hut as decent
lodging for his distinguished guests.
"Here, 'Pifanio, go out there and unsaddle the horses."
The man who was shelling corn stood up with an
effort. He was clad in a tattered shirt and vest. His
torn trousers, split at the seam, looked like the wings of
a cold, stricken bird; two strings of cloth dangled from
his waist. As he walked, he described grotesque circles.
"Surely you're not fit to do any work!" Demetrio said,
refusing to allow him to touch the saddles.
"Poor man," the owner cried from within the hut,
"he's lost all his strength. . . . But he surely works for
his pay. . . . He starts working the minute God Almighty
himself gets up, and it's after sundown now but he's
working still!"
Demetrio went out with Camilla for a stroll about
the encampment. The meadow, golden, furrowed, stripped
even of the smallest bushes, extended limitless in its immense
desolation. The three tall ash trees which stood
in front of the small house, with dark green crests, round
and waving, with rich foliage and branches drooping to
the very ground, seemed a veritable miracle.
"I don't know why but I feel there's a lot of sadness
around here," said Demetrio.
"Yes," Camilla answered, "I feel that way too."
On the bank of a small stream, 'Pifanio was strenuously
tugging at a rope with a large can tied to the end
of it. He poured a stream of water over a heap of fresh,
cool grass; in the twilight, the water glimmered like crystal.
A thin cow, a scrawny nag, and a burro drank noisily
together.
Demetrio recognized the limping servant and asked
him: "How much do you get a day?"
"Eight cents a day, boss."
He was an insignificant, scrofulous wraith of a man
with green eyes and straight, fair hair. He whined complaint
of his boss, the ranch, his bad luck, his dog's life.
"You certainly earn your pay all right, my lad," Demetrio
interrupted kindly. "You complain and complain,
but you aren't no loafer, you work and work." Then,
aside to Camilla: "There's always more damned fools in
the valley than among us folk in the sierra, don't you
think?"
"Of course!" she replied.
They went on. The valley was lost in darkness; stars
came out. Demetrio put his arm around Camilla's waist
amorously and whispered in her ear.
"Yes," she answered in a faint voice.
She was indeed beginning to "fall for him" as she had
expressed it.
Demetrio slept badly. He flung out of the house very
early.
"Something is going to happen to me," he thought.
It was a silent dawn, with faint murmurs of joy. A
thrush sang timidly in one of the ash trees. The animals
in the corral trampled on the refuse. The pig grunted its
somnolence. The orange tints of the sun streaked the
sky; the last star flickered out.
Demetrio walked slowly to the encampment.
He was thinking of his plow, his two black oxen--
young beasts they were, who had worked in the fields
only two years--of his two acres of well-fertilized corn.
The face of his young wife came to his mind, clear and
true as life: he saw her strong, soft features, so gracious
when she smiled on her husband, so proudly fierce toward
strangers. But when he tried to conjure up the
image of his son, his efforts were vain; he had forgotten.
. . .
He reached the camp. Lying among the farrows, the
soldiers slept with the horses, heads bowed, eyes closed.
"Our horses are pretty tired, Anastasio. I think we
ought to stay here at least another day."
"Well, Compadre Demetrio, I'm hankering for the
sierra. . . . If you only knew. . . . You may not believe
me but nothing strikes me right here. I don't know what
I miss but I know I miss something. I feel sad . . .
lost. . . ."
"How many hours' ride from here to Limon?"
"It's no matter of hours; it's three days' hard riding,
Demetrio."
"You know," Demetrio said softly, "I feel as though
I'd like to see my wife again!"
Shortly after, War Paint sought out Camilla.
"That's one on you, my dear. . . . Demetrio's going to
leave you flat! He told me so himself; 'I'm going to get
my real woman,' he says, and he says, 'Her skin is white
and tender . . . and her rosy cheeks. . . . How beautiful
she is!' But you don't have to leave him, you know; if
you're set on staying, well--they've got a child, you know,
and I suppose you could drag it around. . . ."
When Demetrio returned, Camilla, weeping, told him
everything.
"Don't pay no attention to that crazy baggage. It's all
lies, lies!"
Since Demetrio did not go to Limon or remember his
wife again, Camilla grew very happy. War Paint had
merely stung herself, like a scorpion.
XI
Before dawn, they left for Tepatitlan. Their silhouettes
wavered indistinctly over the road and the fields
that bordered it, rising and falling with the monotonous,
rhythmical gait of their horses, then faded away in the
nacreous light of the swooning moon that bathed the
valley.
Dogs barked in the distance.
"By noon we'll reach Tepatitlan, Cuquio tomorrow,
and then . . . on to the sierra!" Demetrio said.
"Don't you think it advisable to go to Aguascalientes
first, General?" Luis Cervantes asked.
"What for?"
"Our funds are melting slowly."
"Nonsense . . . forty thousand pesos in eight days!"
"Well, you see, just this week we recruited over five
hundred new men; all the money's gone in advance loans
and gratuities," Luis Cervantes answered in a low voice.
"No! We'll go straight to the sierra. We'll see later
on."
"Yes, to the sierra!" many of the men shouted.
"To the sierra! To the sierra! Hurrah for the mountains!"
The plains seemed to torture them; they spoke with
enthusiasm, almost with delirium, of the sierra. They
thought of the mountains as of a most desirable mistress
long since unvisited.
Dawn broke behind a cloud of fine reddish dust; the
sun rose an immense curtain of fiery purple. Luis Cervantes
pulled his reins and waited for Quail.
"What's the last word on our deal, Quail?"
"I told you, Tenderfoot: two hundred for the watch
alone."
"No! I'll buy the lot: watches, rings, everything else.
How much?"
Quail hesitated, turned slightly pale; then he cried
spiritedly:
"Two thousand in bills, for the whole business!"
Luis Cervantes gave himself away. His eyes shone
with such an obvious greed that Quail recanted and
said:
"Oh, I was just fooling you. I won't sell nothing! Just
the watch, see? And that's only because I owe Pancracio
two hundred. He beat me at cards last night!"
Luis Cervantes pulled out four crisp "double-face" bills
of Villa's issue and placed them in Quail's hands.
"I'd like to buy the lot. . . . Besides, nobody will offer
you more than that!"
As the sun began to beat down upon them, Manteca
suddenly shouted:
"Ho, Blondie, your orderly says he doesn't care to go
on living. He says he's too damned tired to walk."
The prisoner had fallen in the middle of the road, utterly
exhausted.
"Well, well!" Blondie shouted, retracing his steps. "So
little mama's boy is tired, eh? Poor little fellow. I'll buy
a glass case and keep you in a corner of my house just
as if you were the Virgin Mary's own little son. You've
got to reach home first, see? So I'll help you a little,
sonny!"
He drew his sword out and struck the prisoner several
times.
"Let's have a look at your rope, Pancracio," he said.
There was a strange gleam in his eyes. Quail observed
that the prisoner no longer moved arm or leg. Blondie
burst into a loud guffaw: "The Goddamned fool. Just as
I was learning him to do without food, too!"
"Well, mate, we're almost to Guadalajara," Venancio
said, glancing over the smiling row of houses in Tepatitlan
nestling against the hillside.
They entered joyously. From every window rosy
cheeks, dark luminous eyes observed them. The schools
were quickly converted into barracks; Demetrio found
lodging in the chapel of an abandoned church.
The soldiers scattered about as usual pretending to
seek arms and horses, but in reality for the sole purpose
of looting.
In the afternoon some of Demetrio's men lay stretched
out on the church steps, scratching their bellies. Venancio,
his chest and shoulders bare, was gravely occupied
in killing the fleas in his shirt. A man drew near the wall
and sought permission to speak to the commander. The
soldiers raised their heads; but no one answered.
"I'm a widower, gentlemen. I've got nine children and
I barely make a living with the sweat of my brow. Don't
be hard on a poor widower!"
"Don't you worry about women, Uncle," said Meco,
who was rubbing his feet with tallow, "we've got War
Paint here with us; you can have her for nothing."
The man smiled bitterly.
"She's only got one fault," Pancracio observed,
stretched out on the ground, staring at the blue sky,
"she goes mad over any man she sees."
They laughed loudly; but Venancio with utmost gravity
pointed to the chapel door. The stranger entered timidly
and confided his troubles to Demetrio. The soldiers had
cleaned him out; they had not left a single grain of corn.
"Why did you let them?" Demetrio asked indolently.
The man persisted, lamenting and weeping. Luis Cervantes
was about to throw him out with an insult. But
Camilla intervened.
"Come on, Demetrio, don't be harsh, give him an order
to get his corn back."
Luis Cervantes was obliged to obey; he scrawled a few
lines to which Demetrio appended an illegible scratch.
"May God repay you, my child! God will lead you to
heaven that you may enjoy his glory. Ten bushels of corn
are barely enough for this year's food!" the man cried,
weeping for gratitude. Then he took the paper, kissed
everybody's hand, and withdrew.
XII
They had almost reached Cuquio, when Anastasio
Montanez rode up to Demetrio: "Listen, Compadre, I
almost forgot to tell you. . . . You ought to have seen
the wonderful joke that man Blondie played. You know
what he did with the old man who came to complain
about the corn we'd taken away for horses? Well, the
old man took the paper and went to the barracks. 'Right
you are, brother, come in,' said Blondie, 'come in, come
in here; to give you back what's yours is only the right
thing to do. How many bushels did we steal? Ten? Sure
it wasn't more than ten? . . . That's right, about fifteen,
eh? Or was it twenty, perhaps? . . . Try and remember,
friend. . . . Of course you're a poor man, aren't you, and
you've a lot of kids to raise. . . . Yes, twenty it was. All
right, now! It's not ten or fifteen or twenty I'm going to
give you. You're going to count for yourself. . . . One,
two, three . . . and when you've had enough you just tell
me and I'll stop.' And Blondie pulled out his sword and
beat him till he cried for mercy."
War Paint rocked in her saddle, convulsed with mirth.
Camilla, unable to control herself, blurted out:
"The beast! His heart's rotten to the core! No wonder
I loathe him!"
At once War Paint's expression changed.
"What the hell is it to you!" she scowled. Camilla,
frightened, spurred her horse forward. War Paint did likewise
and, as she trotted past Camilla, suddenly she
reached out, seized the other's hair and pulled with all
her might. Camilla's horse shied; Camilla, trying to brush
her hair back from over her eyes, abandoned the reins.
She hesitated, lost her balance and fell in the road, striking
her forehead against the stones.
War Paint, weeping with laughter, pressed on with utmost
skill and caught Camilla's horse.
"Come on, Tenderfoot; here's a job for you," Pancracio
said as he saw Camilla on Demetrio's saddle, her
face covered with blood.
Luis Cervantes hurried toward her with some cotton;
but Camilla, choking down her sobs and wiping her eyes,
said hoarsely:
"Not from you! If I was dying, I wouldn't accept anything
from you . . . not even water."
In Cuquio Demetrio received a message.
"We've got to go back to Tepatitlan, General," said
Luis Cervantes, scanning the dispatch rapidly. "You've
got to leave the men there while you go to Lagos and take
the train over to Aguascalientes."
There was much heated protest, the men muttering to
themselves or even groaning out loud. Some of them,
mountaineers, swore that they would not continue with
the troop.
Camilla wept all night. On the morrow at dawn, she
begged Demetrio to let her return home.
"If you don't like me, all right," he answered sullenly.
"That's not the reason. I care for you a lot, really.
But you know how it is. That woman . . ."
"Never mind about her. It's all right! I'll send her off to
hell today. I had already decided that."
Camilla dried her tears. . . .
Every horse was saddled; the men were waiting only
for orders from the Chief. Demetrio went up to War
Paint and said under his breath:
"You're not coming with us."
"What!" she gasped.
"You're going to stay here or go wherever you damn
well please, but you're not coming along with us."
"What? What's that you're saying?" Still she could not
catch Demetrio's meaning. Then the truth dawned upon
her. "You want to send me away? By God, I suppose you
believe all the filth that bitch . . . "
And War Paint proceeded to insult Camilla, Luis Cervantes,
Demetrio, and anyone she happened to remember
at the moment, with such power and originality that
the soldiers listened in wonder to vituperation that transcended
their wildest dream of profanity and filth.
Demetrio waited a long time patiently. Then, as she
showed no sign of stopping, he said to a soldier quite
calmly:
"Throw this drunken woman out."
"Blondie, Blondie, love of my life! Help! Come and
show them you're a real man! Show them they're nothing
but sons of bitches! . . ."
She gesticulated, kicked, and shouted.
Blondie appeared; he had just got up. His blue eyes
blinked under heavy lids; his voice rang hoarse. He asked
what had occurred; someone explained. Then he went
up to War Paint, and with great seriousness, said:
"Yes? Really? Well, if you want my opinion, I think
this is just what ought to happen. So far as I'm concerned,
you can go straight to hell. We're all fed up
with you, see?"
War Paint's face turned to granite; she tried to speak
but her muscles were rigid.
The soldiers laughed. Camilla, terrified, held her breath.
War Paint stared slowly at everyone about her. It all
took no more than a few seconds. In a trice she bent
down, drew a sharp, gleaming dagger from her stocking
and leapt at Camilla.
A shrill cry. A body fell, the blood spurting from it.
"Kill her, Goddamn it," cried Demetrio, beyond himself.
"Kill her!"
Two soldiers fell upon War Paint, but she brandished
her dagger, defying them to touch her:
"Not the likes of you, Goddamn you! Kill me yourself,
Demetrio!"
War Paint stepped forward, surrendered her dagger
and, thrusting her breast forward, let her arms fall to
her side.
Demetrio picked up the dagger, red with blood, but
his eyes clouded; he hesitated, took a step backward.
Then, with a heavy hoarse voice he growled, enraged:
"Get out of here! Quick!"
No one dared stop her. She moved off slowly, mute,
somber.
Blondie's shrill, guttural voice broke the silent stupor:
"Thank God! At last I'm rid of that damned louse!"
XIII
Someone plunged a knife
Deep in my side.
Did he know why?
I don't know why.
Maybe he knew,
I never knew.
The blood flowed out
Of that mortal wound.
Did he know why?
I don't know why.
Maybe he knew,
I never knew.
His head lowered, his hands crossed over the pommel
of his saddle, Demetrio in melancholy accents sang the
strains of the intriguing song. Then he fell silent; for
quite a while he continued to feel oppressed and sad.
"You'll see, as soon as we reach Lagos you'll come out
of it, General. There's plenty of pretty girls to give us a
good time," Blondie said.
"Right now I feel like getting damn drunk," Demetrio
answered, spurring his horse forward and leaving
them as if he wished to abandon himself entirely to his
sadness.
After many hours of riding he called Cervantes.
"Listen, Tenderfoot, why in hell do we have to go to
Aguascalientes?"
"You have to vote for the Provisional President of the
Republic, General!"
"President, what? Who in the devil, then, is this man
Carranza? I'll be damned if I know what it's all about."
At last they reached Lagos. Blondie bet that he would
make Demetrio laugh that evening.
Trailing his spurs noisily over the pavement, Demetrio
entered "El Cosmopolita" with Luis Cervantes,
Blondie, and his assistants.
The civilians, surprised in their attempt to escape, remained
where they were. Some feigned to return to their
tables to continue drinking and talking; others hesitantly
stepped up to present their respects to the commander.
"General, so pleased! . . . Major! Delighted to meet you!"
"That's right! I love refined and educated friends,"
Blondie said. "Come on, boys," he added, jovially drawing
his gun, "I'm going to play a tune that'll make you
all dance."
A bullet ricocheted on the cement floor passing between
the legs of the tables, and the smartly dressed
young men-about-town began to jump much as a woman
jumps when frightened by a mouse under her skirt. Pale
as ghosts, they conjured up wan smiles of obsequious approval.
Demetrio barely parted his lips, but his followers
doubled over with laughter.
"Look, Blondie," Quail shouted, "look at that man
going out there. Look, he's limping."
"I guess the bee stung him all right."
Blondie, without turning to look at the wounded man,
announced with enthusiasm that he could shoot off the
top of a tequila bottle at thirty paces without aiming.
"Come on, friend, stand up," he said to the waiter.
He dragged him out by the hand to the patio of the
hotel and set a tequila bottle on his head. The poor
devil refused. Insane with fright, he sought to escape,
but Blondie pulled his gun and took aim.
"Come on, you son of a sea cook! If you keep on
I'll give you a nice warm one!"
Blondie went to the opposite wall, raised his gun and
fired. The bottle broke into bits, the alcohol poured over
the lad's ghastly face.
"Now it's a go," cried Blondie, running to the bar to
get another bottle, which he placed on the lad's head.
He returned to his former position, he whirled about,
and shot without aiming. But he hit the waiter's ear instead
of the bottle. Holding his sides with laughter, he
said to the young waiter:
"Here, kid, take these bills. It ain't much. But you'll
be all right with some alcohol and arnica."
After drinking a great deal of alcohol and beer, Demetrio
spoke:
"Pay the bill, Blondie, I'm going to leave you."
"I ain't got a penny, General, but that's all right. I'll
fix it. How much do we owe you, friend?"
"One hundred and eighty pesos, Chief," the bartender
answered amiably.
Quickly, Blondie jumped behind the bar and with a
sweep of both arms, knocked down all the glasses and
bottles.
"Send the bill to General Villa, understand?"
He left, laughing loudly at his prank.
"Say there, you, where do the girls hang out?"
Blondie asked, reeling up drunkenly toward a small welldressed
man, standing at the door of a tailor shop.
The man stepped down to the sidewalk politely to let
Blondie pass.
Blondie stopped and looked at him curiously, impertinently.
"Little boy, you're very small and dainty, ain't you?
. . . No? . . . Then I'm a liar! . . . That's right! . . . You
know the puppet dance. . . . You don't? The hell you
don't! . . . I met you in a circus! I know you can even
dance on a tightrope! . . . You watch!"
Blondie drew his gun out and began to shoot, aiming
at the tailor's feet; the tailor gave a little jump at every
pull of the trigger.
"See! You do know how to dance on the tightrope,
don't you?"
Taking his friends by the arm, he ordered them to
lead him to the red-light district, punctuating every step
by a shot which smashed a street light, or struck some
wall, a door, or a distant house.
Demetrio left him and returned to the hotel, singing
to himself:
"Someone plunged a knife
Deep in my side.
Did he know why?
I don't know why.
Maybe he knew,
I never knew."
XIV
Stale cigarette smoke, the acrid odors of sweaty
clothing, the vapors of alcohol, the breathing of a
crowded multitude, worse by far than a trainful of pigs.
Texas hats, adorned with gold braid, and khaki predominate.
"Gentlemen, a well-dressed man stole my suitcase
in the station. My life's savings! I haven't enough
to feed my little boy now!"
The shrill voice, rising to a shriek or trailing off into
a sob, is drowned out by the tumult within the train.
"What the hell is the old woman talking about?"
Blondie asks, entering in search of a seat.
"Something about a suitcase . . . and a well-dressed
man," Pancracio replies. He has already the laps of two
civilians to sit on.
Demetrio and the others elbow their way in. Since
those on whom Pancracio had sat preferred to stand up,
Demetrio and Luis Cervantes quickly seize the vacant
seats.
Suddenly a woman who has stood up holding a child
all the way from Irapuato, faints. A civilian takes the
child in his arms. The others pretend to have seen nothing.
Some women, traveling with the soldiers, occupy two
or three seats with baggage, dogs, cats, parrots. Some
of the men wearing Texan hats laugh at the plump arms
and pendulous breasts of the woman who fainted.
"Gentlemen, a well-dressed man stole my suitcase at
the station in Silao! All my life's savings . . . I haven't
got enough to feed my little boy now! . . ."
The old woman speaks rapidly, parrotlike, sighing and
sobbing. Her sharp eyes peer about on all sides. Here
she gets a bill, and further on, another. They shower
money upon her. She finishes the collection, and goes a
few seats ahead.
"Gentlemen, a well-dressed man stole my suitcase in
the station at Silao." Her words produce an immediate
and certain effect.
A well-dressed man, a dude, a tenderfoot, stealing a
suitcase! Amazing, phenomenal! It awakens a feeling of
universal indignation. It's a pity: if this well-dressed man
were here every one of the generals would shoot him
one after the other!
"There's nothing as vile as a city dude who steals!"
a man says, exploding with indignation.
"To rob a poor old lady!"
"To steal from a poor defenseless woman!"
They prove their compassion by word and deed: a
harsh verdict against the culprit; a five-peso bill for the
victim.
"And I'm telling you the truth," Blondie declares.
"Don't think it's wrong to kill, because when you kill,
it's always out of anger. But stealing--Bah!"
This profound piece of reasoning meets with unanimous
assent. After a short silence while he meditates,
a colonel ventures his opinion:
"Everything is all right according to something, see?
That is, everything has its circumstances, see? God's own
truth is this: I have stolen, and if I say that everyone
here has done the trick, I'm not telling a lie, I reckon! "
"Hell, I stole a lot of them sewing machines in Mexico,"
exclaims a major. "I made more'n five hundred
pesos even though I sold them at fifty cents apiece!"
A toothless captain, with hair prematurely white, announces:
"I stole some horses in Zacatecas, all damn fine horses
they was, and then I says to myself, 'This is your own
little lottery, Pascual Mata,' I says. 'You won't have a
worry in all your life after this.' And the damned thing
about it was that General Limon took a fancy to the
horses too, and he stole them from me!"
"Of course--there's no use denying it, I've stolen too,"
Blondie confesses. "But ask any one of my partners
how much profit I've got. I'm a big spender and my
Purse is my friends' to have a good time on! I have
a better time if I drink myself senseless than I would
have sending money back home to the old woman!"
The subject of "I stole," though apparently inexhaustible,
ceases to hold the men's attention. Decks of cards
gradually appear on the seats, drawing generals and officers
as the light draws mosquitoes.
The excitement of gambling soon absorbs every interest,
the heat grows more and more intense. To breathe
is to inhale the air of barracks, prison, brothel, and
pigsty all in one.
And rising above the babble, from the car ahead ever
the shrill voice, "Gentlemen, a well-dressed young man
stole . . ."
The streets in Aguascalientes were so many refuse
piles. Men in khaki moved to and fro like bees before
their hive, overrunning the restaurants, the crapulous
lunch houses, the parlous hotels, and the stands of the
street vendors on which rotten pork lay alongside grimy
cheese.
The smell of these viands whetted the appetites of
Demetrio and his men. They forced their way into a
small inn, where a disheveled old hag served, on earthenware
plates, some pork with bones swimming in a clear
chili stew and three tough burnt tortillas. They paid two
pesos apiece; as they left Pancracio assured his comrades
he was hungrier than when he entered.
"Now," said Demetrio, "we'll go and consult with
General Natera!"
They made for the northern leader's billet.
A noisy, excited crowd stopped them at a street crossing.
A man, lost in the multitude, was mouthing words
in the monotonous, unctuous tones of a prayer. They
came up close enough to see him distinctly; he wore a
shirt and trousers of cheap white cloth and was repeating:
"All good Catholics should read this prayer to Christ
Our Lord upon the Cross with due devotion. Thus they
will be immune from storms and pestilence, famine, and
war."
"This man's no fool," said Demetrio smiling.
The man waved a sheaf of printed handbills in his
hand and cried:
"A quarter of a peso is all you have to pay for this
prayer to Christ Our Lord upon the Cross. A quarter . . ."
Then he would duck for a moment, to reappear with
a snake's tooth, a sea star, or the skeleton of a fish.
In the same predicant tone, he lauded the medical virtues
and the mystical powers of every article he sold.
Quail, who had no faith in Venancio, requested the
man to pull a tooth out. Blondie purchased a black seed
from a certain fruit which protected the possessor from
lightning or any other catastrophe. Anastasio Montanez
purchased a prayer to Christ Our Lord upon the Cross,
and, folding it carefully, stuck it into his shirt with a
pious gesture.
"As sure as there's a God in heaven," Natera said,
"this mess hasn't blown over yet. Now it's Villa fighting
Carranza."
Without answering him, his eyes fixed in a stare,
Demetrio demanded a further explanation.
"It means," Natera said, "that the Convention won't
recognize Carranza as First Chief of the Constitutionalist
Army. It's going to elect a Provisional President of the
Republic. Do you understand me, General?"
Demetrio nodded assent.
"What's your opinion, General?" asked Natera.
Demetrio shrugged his shoulders:
"It seems to me that the meat of the matter is that
we've got to go on fighting, eh? All right! Let's go to it!
I'm game to the end, you know."
"Good, but on what side?"
Demetrio, nonplussed, scratched his head:
"Look here, don't ask me any more questions. I never
went to school, you know. . . . You gave me the eagle
I wear on my hat, didn't you? All right then; you just
tell me: 'Demetrio, do this or do that,' and that's all
there's to it!"
PART THREE
"Villa? Obregon? Carranza? What's the difference? I love
the revolution like a volcano in eruption; I love the volcano,
because it's a volcano, the revolution, because it's the revolution!"
I
El Paso, Texas, May 16, 1915
My Dear Venancio:
Due to the pressure of professional duties I have
been unable to answer your letter of January 4 before
now. As you already know, I was graduated last December.
I was sorry to hear of Pancracio's and Manteca's
fate, though I am not surprised that they stabbed each
other over the gambling table. It is a pity; they were
both brave men. I am deeply grieved not to be able to
tell Blondie how sincerely and heartily I congratulate
him for the only noble and beautiful thing he ever did
in his whole life: to have shot himself!
Dear Venancio, although you may have enough money
to purchase a degree, I am afraid you won't find it
very easy to become a doctor in this country. You know
I like you very much, Venancio; and I think you deserve
a better fate. But I have an idea which may prove
profitable to both of us and which may improve your
social position, as you desire. We could do a fine business
here if we were to go in as partners and set up a
typical Mexican restaurant in this town. I have no reserve
funds at the moment since I've spent all I had in
getting my college degree, but I have something much
more valuable than money; my perfect knowledge of this
town and its needs. You can appear as the owner; we
will make a monthly division of profits. Besides, concerning
a question that interests us both very much,
namely, your social improvement, it occurs to me that
you play the guitar quite well. In view of the recommendations
I could give you and in view of your training
as well, you might easily be admitted as a member
of some fraternal order; there are several here which
would bring you no inconsiderable social prestige.
Don't hesitate, Venancio, come at once and bring
your funds. I promise you we'll get rich in no time. My
best wishes to the General, to Anastasio, and the rest
of the boys.
Your affectionate friend,
Luis Cervantes
Venancio finished reading the letter for the hundredth
time and, sighing, repeated:
"Tenderfoot certainly knows how to pull the strings
all right!"
"What I can't get into my head," observed Anastasio
Montanez, "is why we keep on fighting. Didn't we finish
off this man Huerta and his Federation?"
Neither the General nor Venancio answered; but the
same thought kept beating down on their dull brains like
a hammer on an anvil.
They ascended the steep hill, their heads bowed, pensive,
their horses walking at a slow gait. Stubbornly
restless, Anastasio made the same observation to other
groups; the soldiers laughed at his candor. If a man has
a rifle in his hands and a beltful of cartridges, surely he
should use them. That means fighting. Against whom?
For whom? That is scarcely a matter of importance.
The endless wavering column of dust moved up the
trail, a swirling ant heap of broad straw sombreros, dirty
khaki, faded blankets, and black horses. . . .
Not a man but was dying of thirst; no pool or stream
or well anywhere along the road. A wave of dust rose
from the white, wild sides of a small canyon, swayed
mistily on the hoary crest of huizache trees and the greenish
stumps of cactus. Like a jest, the flowers in the cactus
opened out, fresh, solid, aflame, some thorny, others
diaphanous.
At noon they reached a hut, clinging to the precipitous
sierra, then three more huts strewn over the margin
of a river of burnt sand. Everything was silent, desolate.
As soon as they saw men on horseback, the people in
the huts scurried into the hills to hide. Demetrio grew
indignant.
"Bring me anyone you find hiding or running away,"
he commanded in a loud voice.
"What? What did you say?" Valderrama cried in surprise.
"The men of the sierra? Those brave men who've
not yet done what those chickens down in Aguascalientes
and Zacatecas have done all the time? Our own brothers,
who weather storms, who cling to the rocks like moss
itself ? I protest, sir; I protest!"
He spurred his miserable horse forward and caught
up with the General.
"The mountaineers," he said solemnly and emphatically,
"are flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone. Os ex
osibus meis et caro de carne mea. Mountaineers are made
from the same timber we're made of! Of the same sound
timber from which heroes . . ."
With a confidence as sudden as it was courageous,
he hit the General across the chest. The General smiled
benevolently.
Valderrama, the tramp, the crazy maker of verses, did
he ever know what he said?
When the soldiers reached a small ranch, despairingly,
they searched the empty huts and small houses without
finding a single stale tortilla, a solitary rotten pepper, or
one pinch of salt with which to flavor the horrible taste
of dry meat. The owners of the huts, their peaceful
brethren, were impassive with the stonelike impassivity
of Aztec idols; others, more human, with a slow smile on
their colorless lips and beardless faces, watched these
fierce men who less than a month ago had made the
miserable huts of others tremble with fear, now in their
turn fleeing their own huts where the ovens were cold
and the water tanks dry, fleeing with their tails between
their legs, cringing, like curs kicked out of their own
houses.
But the General did not countermand his order. Some
soldiers brought back four fugitives, captive and bound.
II
WHY do you hide?" Demetrio asked the prisoners.
"We're not hiding, Chief, we're hitting the trail."
"Where to?"
"To our own homes, in God's name, to Durango."
"Is this the road to Durango?"
"Peaceful people can't travel over the main road
nowadays, you know that, Chief."
"You're not peaceful people, you're deserters. Where
do you come from?" Demetrio said, eyeing them with
keen scrutiny.
The prisoners grew confused; they looked at each
other hesitatingly, unable to give a prompt answer.
"They're Carranzistas," one of the soldiers said.
"Carranzistas hell!" one of them said proudly. "I'd
rather be a pig."
"The truth is we're deserters," another said. "After the
defeat we deserted from General Villa's troops this side
of Celaya."
"General Villa defeated? Ha! Ha! That's a good joke."
The soldiers laughed. But Demetrio's brow was
wrinkled as though a black shadow had passed over his
eyes.
"There ain't a son of a bitch on earth who can beat
General Villa!" said a bronzed veteran with a scar clear
across the face.
Without a change of expression, one of the deserters
stared persistently at him and said:
"I know who you are. When we took Torreon you
were with General Urbina. In Zacatecas you were with
General Natera and then you shifted to the Jalisco
troops. Am I lying?"
These words met with a sudden and definite effect.
The prisoners gave a detailed account of the tremendous
defeat of Villa at Celaya. Demetrio's men listened in
silence, stupefied.
Before resuming their march, they built a fire on which
to roast some bull meat. Anastasio Montanez, searching
for food among the huizache trees, descried the closecropped
neck of Valderrama's horse in the distance
among the rocks.
"Hey! Come here, you fool, after all there ain't been
no gravy!" he shouted.
Whenever anything was said about shooting someone,
Valderrama, the romantic poet, would disappear for a
whole day.
Hearing Anastasio's voice, Valderrama was convinced
that the prisoners had been set at liberty. A few moments
later, he was joined by Venancio and Demetrio.
"Heard the news?" Venancio asked gravely.
"No."
"It's very serious. A terrible mess! Villa was beaten
at Celaya by Obregon and Carranza is winning all
along the line! We're done for!"
Valderrama's gesture was disdainful and solemn as
an emperor's. "Villa? Obregon? Carranza? What's the
difference? I love the revolution like a volcano in eruption;
I love the volcano because it's a volcano, the revolution
because it's the revolution! What do I care about
the stones left above or below after the cataclysm? What
are they to me?"
In the glare of the midday sun the reflection of a
white tequila bottle glittered on his forehead; and, jubilant,
he ran toward the bearer of such a marvelous gift.
"I like this crazy fool," Demetrio said with a smile.
"He says things sometimes that make you think."
They resumed their march; their uncertainty translated
into a lugubrious silence. Slowly, inevitably, the catastrophe
must come; it was even now being realized. Villa
defeated was a fallen god; when gods cease to be
omnipotent, they are nothing.
Quail spoke. His words faithfully interpreted the general
opinion:
"What the hell, boys! Every spider's got to spin his
own web now!"
III
In Zacatecas and Aguascalientes, in the little country
towns and the neighboring communities, haciendas and
ranches were deserted. When one of the officers found
a barrel of tequila, the event assumed miraculous proportions.
Everything was conducted with secrecy and care;
deep mystery was preserved to oblige the soldiers to
leave on the morrow before sunrise under Anastasio and
Venancio.
When Demetrio awoke to the strains of music, his
general staff, now composed chiefly of young ex-government
officers, told him of the discovery, and Quail, interpreting
the thoughts of his colleagues, said sententiously:
"These are bad times and you've got to take advantage
of everythin'. If there are some days when a duck can
swim, there's others when he can't take a drink."
The string musicians played all day; the most solemn
honors were paid to the barrel: but Demetrio was very sad.
"Did he know why?
I don't know why."
He kept repeating the same refrain.
In the afternoon there were cockfights. Demetrio sat
down with the chief officers under the roof of the municipal
portals in front of a city square covered with
weeds, a tumbled kiosk, and some abandoned adobe
houses.
"Valderrama," Demetrio called, looking away from the
ring with tired eyes, "come and sing me a song--sing
'The Undertaker.'"
But Valderrama did not hear him; he had no eyes
for the fight; he was reciting an impassioned soliloquy as
he watched the sunset over the hills.
With solemn gestures and emphatic tones, he said:
"O Lord, Lord, pleasurable it is this thy land! I shall
build me three tents: one for Thee, one for Moses, one
for Elijah!"
"Valderrama," Demetrio shouted again. "Come and
sing 'The Undertaker' song for me."
"Hey, crazy, the General is calling you," an officer
shouted.
Valderrama with his eternally complacent smile went
over to Demetrio's seat and asked the musicians for a
guitar.
"Silence," the gamesters cried. Valderrama finished
tuning his instrument.
Quail and Meco let loose on the sand a pair of cocks
armed with long sharp blades attached to their legs. One
was light red; his feathers shone with beautiful obsidian
glints. The other was sand-colored with feathers like
scales burned slowly to a fiery copper color.
The fight was swift and fierce as a duel between men.
As though moved by springs, the roosters flew at each
other. Their feathers stood up on their arched necks;
their combs were erect, their legs taut. For an instant
they swung in the air without even touching the ground,
their feathers, beaks, and claws lost in a dizzy whirlwind.
The red rooster suddenly broke, tossed with his
legs to heaven outside the chalk lines. His vermilion eyes
closed slowly, revealing eyelids of pink coral; his tangled
feathers quivered and shook convulsively amid a pool of
blood.
Valderrama, who could not repress a gesture of violent
indignation, began to play. With the first melancholy
strains of the tune, his anger disappeared. His eyes
gleamed with the light of madness. His glance strayed
over the square, the tumbled kiosk, the old adobe houses,
over the mountains in the background, and over the sky,
burning like a roof afire. He began to sing. He put such
feeling into his voice and such expression into the strings
that, as he finished, Demetrio turned his head aside to
hide his tears.
But Valderrama fell upon him, embraced him warmly,
and with a familiarity he showed everyone at the appropriate
moment, he whispered:
"Drink them! . . . Those are beautiful tears."
Demetrio asked for the bottle, passed it to Valderrama.
Greedily the poet drank half its contents in one
gulp; then, showing only the whites of his eyes, he faced
the spectators dramatically and, in a highly theatrical
voice, cried:
"Here you may witness the blessings of the revolution
caught in a single tear."
Then he continued to talk like a madman, but like a
madman whose vast prophetic madness encompassed all
about him, the dusty weeds, the tumbled kiosk, the gray
houses, the lovely hills, and the immeasurable sky.
IV
Juchipila rose in the distance, white, bathed in sunlight,
shining in the midst of a thick forest at the foot of a
proud, lofty mountain, pleated like a turban.
Some of the soldiers, gazing at the spire of the church,
sighed sadly. They marched forward through the canyon,
uncertain, unsteady, as blind men walking without a hand
to guide them. The bitterness of the exodus pervaded
them.
"Is that town Juchipila?" Valderrama asked.
In the first stage of his drunkenness, Valderrama had
been counting the crosses scattered along the road, along
the trails, in the hollows near the rocks, in the tortuous
paths, and along the riverbanks. Crosses of black timber
newly varnished, makeshift crosses built out of two logs,
crosses of stones piled up and plastered together, crosses
whitewashed on crumbling walls, humble crosses drawn
with charcoal on the surface of whitish rocks. The
traces of the first blood shed by the revolutionists of
1910, murdered by the Government.
Before Juchipila was lost from sight, Valderrama got off
his horse, bent down, kneeled, and gravely kissed the
ground.
The soldiers passed by without stopping. Some laughed
at the crazy man, others jested. Valderrama, deaf to all
about him, breathed his unctuous prayer:
"O Juchipila, cradle of the Revolution of 1910, 0
blessed land, land steeped in the blood of martyrs, blood
of dreamers, the only true men . . ."
"Because they had no time to be bad!" an ex-Federal
officer interjected as he rode.
Interrupting his prayer, Valderrama frowned, burst into
stentorian laughter, reechoed by the rocks, and ran toward
the officer begging for a swallow of tequila.
Soldiers minus an arm or leg, cripples, rheumatics,
and consumptives spoke bitterly of Demetrio. Young
whippersnappers were given officers' commissions and
wore stripes on their hats without a day's service, even
before they knew how to handle a rifle, while the veterans,
exhausted in a hundred battles, now incapacitated
for work, the veterans who had set out as simple privates,
were still simple privates. The few remaining officers
among Demetrio's friends also grumbled, because
his staff was made up of wealthy, dapper young men who
oiled their hair and used perfume.
"The worst part of it," Venancio said, "is that we're
gettin' overcrowded with Federals!"
Anastasio himself, who invariably found only praise
for Demetrio's conduct, now seemed to share the general
discontent.
"See here, brothers," he said, "I spits out the truth
when I sees something. I always tell the boss that if
these people stick to us very long we'll be in a hell of a
fix. Certainly! How can anyone think otherwise? I've no
hair on my tongue; and by the mother that bore me, I'm
going to tell Demetrio so myself."
Demetrio listened benevolently, and, when Anastasio
had finished, he replied:
"You're right, there's no gettin' around it, we're in a
bad way. The soldiers grumble about the officers, the
officers grumble about us, see? And we're damn well
ready now to send both Villa and Carranza to hell to
have a good time all by themselves. . . . I guess we're in
the same fix as that peon from Tepatitlan who complained
about his boss all day long but worked on just
the same. That's us. We kick and kick, but we keep on
killing and killing. But there's no use in saying anything
to them!"
"Why, Demetrio?"
"Hm, I don't know. . . . Because . . . because . . . do
you see? . . . What we've got to do is to make the men
toe the mark. I've got orders to stop a band of men
coming through Cuquio, see? In a few days we'll have
to fight the Carranzistas. It will be great to beat the hell
out of them."
Valderrama, the tramp, who had enlisted in Demetrio's
army one day without anyone remembering the
time or the place, overheard some of Demetrio's words.
Fools do not eat fire. That very day Valderrama disappeared
mysteriously as he had come.
V
They entered the streets of Juchipila as the church
bells rang, loud and joyfully, with that peculiar tone that
thrills every mountaineer.
"It makes me think we are back in the days when the
revolution was just beginning, when the bells rang like
mad in every town we entered and everybody came out
with music, flags, cheers, and fireworks to welcome us,"
said Anastasio Montanez.
"They don't like us no more," Demetrio returned.
"Of course. We're crawling back like a dog with its tail
between its legs," Quail remarked.
"It ain't that, I guess. They don't give a whoop for the
other side either."
"But why should they like us?"
They spoke no more.
Presently they reached the city square and stopped in
front of an octagonal, rough, massive church, reminiscent
of the colonial period. At one time the square must
have been a garden, judging from the bare stunted orange
trees planted between iron and wooden benches. The
sonorous, joyful bells rang again. From within the church,
the honeyed voices of a female chorus rose melancholy
and grave. To the strains of a guitar, the young girls of
the town sang the "Mysteries."
"What's the fiesta, lady?" Venancio asked of an old
woman who was running toward the church.
"The Sacred Heart of Jesus!" answered the pious
woman, panting.
They remembered that one year ago they had captured
Zacatecas. They grew sadder still.
Juchipila, like the other towns they had passed through
on their way from Tepic, by way of Jalisco, Aguascalientes
and Zacatecas, was in ruins. The black trail of
the incendiaries showed in the roofless houses, in the
burnt arcades. Almost all the houses were closed, yet,
here and there, those still open offered, in ironic contrast,
portals gaunt and bare as the white skeletons of horses
scattered over the roads. The terrible pangs of hunger
seemed to speak from every face; hunger on every dusty
cheek, in their dusty countenances; in the hectic flame
of their eyes, which, when they met a soldier, blazed
with hatred. In vain the soldiers scoured the streets in
search of food, biting their lips in anger. A single lunchroom
was open; at once they filled it. No beans, no tortillas,
only chili and tomato sauce. In vain the officers
showed their pocketbooks stuffed with bills or used
threats:
"Yea, you've got papers all right! That's all you've
brought! Try and eat them, will you?" said the owner,
an insolent old shrew with an enormous scar on her
cheek, who told them she had already lain with a dead
man, "to cure her from ever feeling frightened again."
Despite the melancholy and desolation of the town,
while the women sang in the church, birds sang in the
foliage, and the thrushes piped their lyrical strain on
the withered branches of the orange trees.
VI
Demetrio Macias' wife, mad with joy, rushed
along the trail to meet him, leading a child by the hand.
An absence of almost two years!
They embraced each other and stood speechless. She
wept, sobbed. Demetrio stared in astonishment at his
wife who seemed to have aged ten or twenty years.
Then he looked at the child who gazed up at him in surprise.
His heart leaped to his mouth as he saw in the
child's features his own steel features and fiery eyes exactly
reproduced. He wanted to hold him in his arms, but
the frightened child took refuge in his mother's skirts.
"It's your own father, baby! It's your daddy!"
The child hid his face within the folds of his mother's
skirt, still hostile.
Demetrio handed the reins of his horse to his orderly
and walked slowly along the steep trail with his wife
and son.
"Blessed be the Virgin Mary, Praise be to God! Now
you'll never leave us any more, will you? Never . . .
never. . . . You'll stay with us always?"
Demetrio's face grew dark. Both remained silent, lost
in anguish. Demetrio suppressed a sigh. Memories
crowded and buzzed through his brain like bees about a
hive.
A black cloud rose behind the sierra and a deafening
roar of thunder resounded. The rain began to fall in
heavy drops; they sought refuge in a rocky hut.
The rain came pelting down, shattering the white Saint
John roses clustered like sheaves of stars clinging to tree,
rock, bush, and pitaya over the entire mountainside.
Below in the depths of the canyon, through the gauze
of the rain they could see the tall, sheer palms shaking
in the wind, opening out like fans before the tempest.
Everywhere mountains, heaving hills, and beyond more
hills, locked amid mountains, more mountains encircled
in the wall of the sierra whose loftiest peaks vanished in
the sapphire of the sky.
"Demetrio, please. For God's sake, don't go away! My
heart tells me something will happen to you this time."
Again she was wracked with sobs. The child, frightened,
cried and screamed. To calm him, she controlled
her own great grief.
Gradually the rain stopped, a swallow, with silver
breast and wings describing luminous charming curves,
fluttered obliquely across the silver threads of the rain,
gleaming suddenly in the afternoon sunshine.
"Why do you keep on fighting, Demetrio?"
Demetrio frowned deeply. Picking up a stone absentmindedly,
he threw it to the bottom of the canyon. Then
he stared pensively into the abyss, watching the arch of
its flight.
"Look at that stone; how it keeps on going. . . ."
VII
It was a heavenly morning. It had rained all night,
the sky awakened covered with white clouds. Young wild
colts trotted on the summit of the sierra, with tense
manes and waving hair, proud as the peaks lifting their
heads to the clouds.
The soldiers stepped among the huge rocks, buoyed
up by the happiness of the morning. None for a moment
dreamed of the treacherous bullet that might be awaiting
him ahead; the unforeseen provides man with his greatest
joy. The soldiers sang, laughed, and chattered away.
The spirit of nomadic tribes stirred their souls. What matters
it whether you go and whence you come? All that
matters is to walk, to walk endlessly, without ever stopping;
to possess the valley, the heights of the sierra, far
as the eye can read.
Trees, brush, and cactus shone fresh after rain. Heavy
drops of limpid water fell from rocks, ocher in hue as
rusty armor.
Demetrio Macias' men grew silent for a moment.
They believed they heard the familiar rumor of firing in
the distance. A few minutes elapsed but the sound was
not repeated.
"In this same sierra," Demetrio said, "with but twenty
men I killed five hundred Federals. Remember, Anastasio?"
As Demetrio began to tell that famous exploit, the
men realized the danger they were facing. What if the
enemy, instead of being two days away, was hiding somewhere
among the underbrush on the terrible hill through
whose gorge they now advanced? None dared show the
slightest fear. Not one of Demetrio Macias' men dared
say, "I shall not move another inch!"
So, when firing began in the distance where the vanguard
was marching, no one felt surprised. The recruits
turned back hurriedly, retreating in shameful flight,
searching for a way out of the canyon.
A curse broke from Demetrio's parched lips.
"Fire at 'em. Shoot any man who runs away!"
"Storm the hill!" he thundered like a wild beast.
But the enemy, lying in ambush by the thousand,
opened up its machine-gun fire. Demetrio's men fell like
wheat under the sickle.
Tears of rage and pain rise to Demetrio's eyes as
Anastasio slowly slides from his horse without a sound,
and lies outstretched, motionless. Venancio falls close
beside him, his chest riddled with bullets. Meco hurtles
over the precipice, bounding from rock to rock.
Suddenly, Demetrio finds himself alone. Bullets whiz
past his ears like hail. He dismounts and crawls over the
rocks, until he finds a parapet: he lays down a stone to
protect his head and, lying flat on the ground, begins to
shoot.
The enemy scatter in all directions, pursuing the few
fugitives hiding in the brush. Demetrio aims; he does not
waste a single shot.
His famous marksmanship fills him with joy. Where
he settles his glance, he settles a bullet. He loads his gun
once more . . . takes aim. . . .
The smoke of the guns hangs thick in the air. Locusts
chant their mysterious, imperturbable song. Doves coo
lyrically in the crannies of the rocks. The cows graze
placidly.
The sierra is clad in gala colors. Over its inaccessible
peaks the opalescent fog settles like a snowy veil on the
forehead of a bride.
At the foot of a hollow, sumptuous and huge as the
portico of an old cathedral, Demetrio Macias, his eyes
leveled in an eternal glance, continues to point the barrel
of his gun.