A Fistful of Dynamite

by James Lewis

  The garrison wall to the left of the wall facing Mallory was painted with white stripes. You better use that goddamned wall, you bastards, Mallory thought. He held his breath as the soldiers came forward, then relaxed when they pushed Juan against the stripes, rather than against the wall with the explosives.

  He blew them a little kiss, then brought out from under his coat his pistol and a stick of dynamite.

  The firing squad took up position facing Juan. The Mexican glared at them icily. “Platoon!” an officer called. Mallory lit the fuse to the dynamite stick. He waited. “Ready!” the officer snapped. Mallory stood up suddenly. “Aim!” Mallory heaved the dynamite with all his strength in the direction of the firing squad.

  Mallory saw Juan look up at that moment and instinctively duck. The dynamite sailed toward the soldiers. It exploded with an enormous bang, and the squad disappeared in a cloud of black smoke.

  Mallory braced himself against the shock wave. The moment it passed he took aim at the canvas package and squeezed off three quick shots. The second explosion knocked him on his back.

  He got up quickly and ran to the rear of the roof. His blood pounding in his ears, he dropped to the ground and raced for the motorcycle. Goddamn, it better start the first time. Every second counted.

  It did. The motorcycle roared to life and settled into a sweet purr. Christ, this is a fine machine, he found himself thinking as he pushed it toward the smoking ruins of the wall.

  He took the rubble full out, praying that a tire wouldn’t go. The machine climbed it, paused for a frightening second, then hurtled into the air and down the other side.

  The courtyard was still churning thick smoke. Shouts were coming from the garrison. In a minute the troops inside would come rushing out, shooting.

  Mallory headed for where Juan had been. The machine bounced over a few bodies before he swerved sharply to the left and stopped. Juan was standing there, grinning. Mallory reached out, grabbed his collar and pulled him toward the rear seat. Juan jumped on.

  Mallory spun the motorcycle and it plunged back toward the hole in the wall. With the smoke lifting, he was able to see enough to guide it through a narrow space nearly clear of debris. Behind him, Juan was screaming curses at the soldiers.

  Free of the courtyard, Mallory opened the bike fully. They were a block away before the first shots rang out vainly behind them.

  PART THREE

  JOHNNY AND JOHNNY

  Chapter One

  Juan peered out through the slats of the cattle car. A peon with a sickly look was leaning against the end wall of the station platform. The peon was dead. Juan had just seen him executed by a firing squad, but the man’s body stubbornly refused to fall.

  Two soldiers walked wearily over and pushed the body to the ground. One of them threw a straw mat over the body and they rolled the peon in it. Finished, they dragged the man over beside a line of rolled mats. Juan counted nine rolls.

  An enormous crowd was milling on the platform itself, fighting to get on the train. At the far end of the platform, soldiers and police were struggling in vain to hold back a screaming, surging mass of civilians. In the distance Juan could hear the dull thud of cannon fire.

  The peasants on the platform were carrying bundles which must have contained their lives’ possessions. Herds of children clawed at their parents, wailing hysterically as they were pummeled to and fro by the mob. Here and there Juan could see a bewildered soldier trying to push his way through. Policemen were clubbing the peasants back from the train with their rifle butts, men and women alike, hoping to maintain some order. The few wretched old passenger cars were already filled beyond belief.

  Juan noticed two particularly determined soldiers fight through the panicky crowd and haul a civilian off the train. They dragged him through the pressing mass of flesh, holding him with one hand each while wielding their free forearms as bludgeons. They smashed their way to Juan’s end of the platform, then pulled the man off it and stood him by the end wall.

  A captain came over to the civilian and glowered at him. The captain reached out and, with a violent pull, tore off the man’s shirt. Juan was surprised to see a lieutenant’s uniform underneath.

  The captain ripped off the lieutenant’s insignia. His mouth curled in contempt. “The fact that President Huerta has abandoned the capital doesn’t mean a thing,” he growled. “And above all it doesn’t authorize an officer to desert.”

  He turned to the soldiers. “Shoot him!”

  The two soldiers slammed the disheveled lieutenant against the wall. The man’s features came apart in terror. “Turn around!” the captain snapped scornfully. “Deserters are shot in the back.”

  A fearful moan escaped the lieutenant. Reluctantly, he turned to face the wall. A second later his body was hurled against the stone by a volley of shots; it fell in a heap to the ground.

  Behind him Juan heard mingled bleating, braying, clucking, and grunting. He turned around. There were no cattle in the car, only goats and sheep and cages of chickens, rabbits, and geese. The crates were piled along one wall of the car; along the other were stacked flour sacks, oil kegs, and wine barrels. Juan had presumed at first that the supplies and animals were for troops up north, but something else made him doubt that. In the corner was an enormous cage holding a covey of variously colored and assorted birds. Only a collector would have them; they were clearly not for eating. Juan wondered who the collector might be.

  In the other corner Mallory lay stretched out on a pile of straw, his bowler over his eyes. Juan regarded him with something akin to fondness. Firecracker had proved to be okay after all.

  He kicked a goat out of the way and went over and cleared a place in the straw for himself. With a sigh, he stretched out beside Mallory. He noticed as he eased his sombrero over his face that there was another bird cage directly overhead.

  A minute later there was a loud plop, followed by a faint dripping sound. Ugh! Juan sat up and examined his hat. The bird dropping lay directly in the middle, a slimy, malodorous stain. Juan looked wearily up at the bird cage and shook his head. “Ah, but for the rich, you sing …” he told the bird.

  He lay back down and put the sombrero back over his face.

  “We should reach the American border by tonight,” Mallory said without stirring. He sounded optimistic.

  Juan didn’t say anything. They were going to America, sure, but the idea no longer excited him. America made him think of banks and banks made him think of his niños.

  Mallory tried again. “Hey, what was that idea of yours …? Our company, wasn’t it, uh, ‘Johnny and Johnny’ …”

  Juan lifted his hat and smiled sadly and thinly at Mallory. He was grateful for the Irishman’s try, anyway.

  “Forget it, Irish,” he said softly.

  He rolled back over. The straw smelled sweet. It was good to lay in it after the long ride from Mesa Verde. His backside still ached from that hard rear seat and his arms were stiff from hanging on for so long. They had made it within five miles of Orozco and then walked the rest of the way to the city. A train was preparing to leave for the north, they had learned, and so they had stolen onto the cattle car under cover of darkness. In a day, maybe two, they’d be in America and away from this insane war. Juan dozed off.

  They were jolted awake by a heavy thud. There was a sound of metal clanging and the cattle car lurched violently forward, then stopped. A chicken coop fell with a clatter. The birds fluttered frantically inside it.

  Mallory got up quickly and looked through the slats. Behind, two railroad workers were finishing the task of coupling another wagon to the cattle car. Armor plating had been bolted over the entire surface of the new car. Even the doors and windows were shielded, leaving only small openings for weapons. A soldier stood on each footboard.

  On the platform other soldiers were now brutally beating the peons aside. They formed a semicircular clearing to the armored car and held it against the swelling, shouting throng.

  A horn
began to honk in short, edgy bursts. Mallory’s ears picked up. Straight ahead another detachment of soldiers came marching toward the clearing. In their midst was a large, heavy sedan. The automobile was of fine polished wood set off by gleaming brass. With the windows raised and reflecting the intense sunlight, Mallory couldn’t see who was riding inside.

  The vehicle eased into the cleared area and the cordon of soldiers immediately began unloading suitcases and carrying them to the train. Mallory lost count after the first half dozen cases.

  A chauffeur climbed out of the sedan and opened the rear door. A stocky man stepped out in a regal manner, head up, not looking at the frantic peasants. He was clutching a bulging red leather bag. The man wore a lavishly expensive dark suit, and his soft gray hair had obviously been trimmed by an expert barber. Mallory recognized him immediately.

  It was the governor. The man whose face was plastered on posters all over Mesa Verde and Orozco. The grandfatherly “gentleman” who gave bread to peasants.

  Mallory frowned. He glanced uneasily at Juan. If the Mexican saw His Excellency Don Jaime now, all those soldiers wouldn’t prevent him from trying to kill the man. Juan caught his glance and started to rise.

  “What are they doing out there?” he asked.

  Mallory wheeled around. “Nothing!” he smiled. He slapped Juan’s shoulder reassuringly and gently but forcefully pushed him back down. “They just hooked up the locomotive, that’s all. We’ll be leaving soon. Might as well catch some sleep.”

  With a grunt, Juan stretched out again.

  Mallory peeked through the slats. The governor was being escorted aboard the train. He held the red bag under his arm as a drowning man would a lifesaver. Dozens of soldiers boarded the armored car with him.

  Mallory went over and sat down against the back wall of the cattle car, the wall separating it from the governor’s coach. The smell of animal dung stung his nose. He smiled to himself. If Juan knew about the armored car, he’d say the smell from there was worse. He watched the Mexican intently, relaxing only when he appeared to be heavily asleep.

  Ten minutes later the train began to move. Mallory saw the crowds and the station slip by. Within minutes, the train was moving at a smooth and steady speed. The cattle car swayed gently, lulling Mallory into a state of wakeful consciousness.

  It wasn’t for two hours that the guerrillas attacked.

  Juan felt himself slam against a hard surface. Something heavy and pointed landed on his back and made him cry out. He looked up dazedly. The train had stopped. The animals were bleating and screaming in terror. Crazed, they jostled each other back and forth. In the spilled cages, chickens and geese fluttered madly while the rabbits ran in frenzied circles. The supply crates lay everywhere.

  Outside, heavy machine guns were chattering incessantly. Juan looked at Mallory, sprawled against the back wall. They exchanged worried looks.

  “Motherofjesus!” Juan leaped toward the slats. He pressed his face against them, peering toward the front of the train. He could just make out the ends of tree trunks lying across the tracks in front of the locomotive. A barricade! But why? Who? The rebels? Why attack a trainful of peons and a handful of stupid goats and shitting birds? Were those madmen really as moronic as he thought?

  They were stopped on the plain. A dry, rocky terrain stretched unbroken for miles. Guerrillas could be seen shooting from behind the rocks. Judging from the angle of their fire, Juan thought, there must be targets on the roof of the train.

  Dozens of guerrillas suddenly broke from behind the rocks and raced for the rear of the train. Toward the cattle car? Toward him? It couldn’t be! And yet there they were, firing insanely in his direction. A few bullets ripped through the planking, showering splinters into the car. You idiots! Juan screamed to himself.

  Again, he followed the angle of their fire. No, they weren’t shooting at him. They were aiming past the cattle car. He looked sharply to his right. Hah! There was another car there, one covered with thick black plates. There must be troops inside it.

  There was a rattling noise in the car. Juan looked toward Mallory. The handle to the end door of the catde car was jumping up and down above Mallory’s head. The Irishman glanced up quizzically. Someone was trying to escape from the armored car, Juan realized suddenly.

  Mallory’s face was as imperturbable as ever. He got up slowly and backed against the wall beside the door. Then he reached out and coolly opened the inside lock to the door.

  The door swung open cautiously. A man stepped into the car. He was in shirtsleeves and his pants were partly unbuttoned. His left hand held tightly to a red leather bag. His right hand held a pistol.

  Startled, the man jumped at the sight of Juan and brought up the gun. Juan regarded him with curiosity. Who was he? He frowned. Something about the man was familiar.

  The man extended the gun at him and sighted along it. His hand was trembling. “Get out of the way,” he said.

  Juan didn’t move. He was worried now. Why couldn’t he place the man? He was sure he had seen him before. He looked at the red bag. What was in it?

  The man cocked the pistol.

  Mallory acted then. He came swiftly away from the wall at the man’s left and chopped his hand quickly and powerfully down on the wrist holding the gun. With his other hand he caught the weapon in his bowler. Juan smiled. A nice trick!

  The man shrunk upon himself visibly. He looked from Juan to Mallory in alarm and then back to Juan. His chest heaved in short, fierce gasps. Outside, the gunfire and shouting grew closer and more intense.

  “What do you want from me?” the man wheezed. “Let me by …”

  Something about the way he held his head struck Juan. He studied the soft, quivering flesh of the man’s face. And suddenly he knew.

  The realization jolted him. The posters! The governor! Don Jaime himself! That pompous, thieving son of a diseased mother! Huerta’s pimp. Guiterrez’ master. That bread he was pictured handing out to the peasants, it was poisoned. The man was a murderer.

  Don Jaime was cringing now, clearly intimidated by the silence. He glanced pathetically down at the bag he was holding, then tossed it at Juan. It fell heavily to the floor. “Open it, it’s yours,” he stammered. He brought his hands up imploringly. “There’s a fortune inside. Money, jewels, deeds. Let me go. It’s yours. You can have it all. Everything …”

  Juan said nothing. A raucous din, very loud now, drifted into the cattle car. It melded into a fierce howl which seemed to shake the train and which set the animals bleating again. The guerrillas were assaulting the armored car.

  He glanced at Mallory and slowly held out his hand. The Irishman nodded, understanding. He reached into the bowler and tossed the pistol to Juan.

  “No,” Don Jaime whimpered. “No …”

  Juan stared at him coldly and aimed the weapon. An icy rage had gripped him. He would have his revenge. He would have the eye, tooth, and hand of this squealing pig.

  Don Jaime stumbled sideways. Mad with fear, he scrambled toward the gate of the car. A sour odor came off the man. He tripped over a sack and fell forward onto the straw, but clawed his way quickly to his feet. The pistol followed him implacably.

  The armored car behind them was shaking now. Loud thumping and ringing cracks issued from it. The rebels must be on it. The shooting had stopped. Gradually, the shouting was dying down.

  Don Jaime staggered into a goat. A craven shriek escaped him. He clambered over the animal and lunged for the gate. His hands tore at it frantically. With a final, fearful heave he managed to slide it open a crack. Juan watched it all in silence.

  Don Jaime turned for the small opening. Juan saw him outlined briefly against a pale blue sky. In a moment he would leap. Juan shot him in the shoulder.

  The bullet spun him around. His face was the most frightened and pained Juan had ever seen. There was no further that terror could take a man, he suddenly understood. He shot the creature before him in the eye.

  It made no furthe
r sound. Blood spurted upward from its eye as it fell backward through the gate. A second later Juan could see only the sky’s soft blue before him. He was dimly aware that the shouting had begun again almost instantly after Don Jaime had fallen out.

  Something in him cracked. A strange feeling overcame him. The dull, rootless pain he had felt that night at the cave seemed to wash away. He stood still a minute, his mind casting up images at an incredible rate, taking him back and forward and back again to visions which he had thought were dead. The old, compelling excitement rushed back into him like a flood.

  Mallory had moved to close the sliding doors. He glanced out through the slats as the door banged into place, then turned to Juan. “Doesn’t look like this train will ever reach America,” he said resignedly.

  “Maybe the train won’t. But we will.”

  Juan looked down at the governor’s bag. He was beginning to feel more lightheaded and exuberant by the moment. He had just killed the governor, maybe the most corrupt man in Mexico, hadn’t he? And the governor was fleeing with all his money, jewels and deeds, wasn’t he? And here they were at his, Juan’s, feet. Who needed banks now? Who needed anything? Here was a fortune, more money than he’d ever seen. And it was his. His.

  He bent and picked up the bag. Mallory looked at him in surprise.

  “Which way is America, Johnny?” Juan said.

  In America he could safely spend it. In America he could live like a rich man without those insane rebels plaguing him. In America they understood his kind of man.

  Mallory crossed to the opposite gate. His expression was impassive once again. “I think it’s this way, straight ahead,” the Irishman said.

  “So what are we waiting for?” His head sang with America. He would own the finest horses and the best automobiles and the most beautiful women. Motherofjesus, he would be a king.