They set the stretcher down on the ground; Demetrio called out in a weak voice, asking for a drink of water.
Faded skirts, bony chests, and disheveled heads gathered in the dark mouths of the humble dwellings, while bright eyes and ruddy cheeks stayed congregated inside.
A chubby little boy with shiny dark skin went up to see the man on the stretcher. He was followed by an old woman, and then everyone else came out and surrounded Demetrio.
A very friendly girl brought a jícara3filled with blue water. Demetrio grabbed the gourd with his trembling hands and drank avidly.
“Want any more?”
Demetrio raised his eyes: the young woman had a very ordinary face, but her voice was filled with much sweetness.
He wiped the sweat spotting his forehead with the back of his fist, turned over to one side, and uttered weakly:
“May God bless you for this!”
Then he began to shiver so strongly that the grass bed and the legs of the stretcher started to shake as well. The fever finally made him lethargic.
“It’s gettin’ damp out and tha’s bad for the fever,” said Señora Remigia, a barefoot, hunched-over old woman wearing a coarse cotton rag across her chest as a shirt. She invited the men to bring Demetrio into her hut.
Pancracio, Anastasio Montañés, and Quail lay down at the foot of the stretcher like loyal dogs, attentive to anything their leader might need.
The others headed out in search of food.
Señora Remigia offered them what she had: chilies and tortillas.
“Just imagine! Not long ago I had eggs, chickens, there was even a baby goat that was born here. But these damned Federales cleaned me out.”
Later, cupping her hands around her mouth, she whispered into Anastasio’s ear:
“Just imagine! They even took Señora Nieves’s youngest daughter!”
V
Quail opened his eyes and sat up, startled:
“Montañés, didya hear that? A gunshot! Montañés . . . wake up!”
Quail pushed Montañés hard several times, until he got him to move and stop snoring.
“Son of a ... ! You botherin’ me again? I tell ya that the dead don’t come back to haunt us . . .” Anastasio muttered, half awake.
“I heard a gunshot! Montañés!”
“Go to sleep, Quail, or you’re gonna get it . . .”
“No, Anastasio. I’m tellin’ ya this is no nightmare. I’ve stopped thinkin’ about those men that was hung. I really heard a gunshot. I heard it nice and clear.”
“So you’re sayin’ ya heard a gunshot? Let’s see, hand me my Mauser.”
Anastasio Montañés rubbed his eyes, lazily stretched out his arms and legs, and stood up.
They walked out of the hut. The sky was covered with sparkling stars, and a moon was rising like a thin scythe. The confused rustling of frightened women could be heard inside the small houses, as well as the sound of men who had been sleeping outside and were also waking now and grabbing their weapons.
“You idiot! You’ve broken my foot!”
The voice was heard clearly and distinctly nearby.
“Who goes there?”
The sound echoed from boulder to boulder, from hill crest to hill dale, until it was lost in the distance and silence of the night.
“Who goes there?” Anastasio repeated in a louder voice, cocking the bolt of his Mauser.
“I’m with Demetrio Macías!” the answer came from close by.
“It’s Pancracio!” Quail said, relieved. Then, no longer concerned, he rested the butt of his rifle on the ground.
Pancracio was leading a young fellow covered entirely in dirt, from his American felt hat down to his worn-out, clumsy shoes. He had a fresh stain of blood on one of the legs of his trousers, near his foot.
“Who’s this curro?”1Anastasio asked.
“There I am, keeping guard, when I hears a sound in the bushes, so I shout: ‘Who goes there?’ And this guy answers: ’Carranzo.’2So I think, ‘Carranzo, I don’t know no bird with no name like that.’ So I say, here goes your Carranzo, and I filled one of his legs with lead.”
Pancracio smiled and looked around with his beardless face, waiting for his applause.
At that point the unknown man spoke:
“Who is the leader here?”
Anastasio raised his head proudly, facing him.
The young man lowered his voice a bit.
“Well, I too am a revolutionary. The Federales grabbed me in one of their levies, and I joined their files. But in the battle the day before yesterday I was able to desert, and I have come, on foot, looking for your group.”
“Oh, he’s a Federale!” said a number of men in response, looking at him with wonder.
“Oh, he’s one of those conservative mongrels!” Anastasio Montañés said. “Why didn’t you pump his head full of lead instead of his foot?”
“Who knows what he’s up to. Says he wants to speak to Demetrio, that he’s got God knows what to tell ’im. But before he does anythin’ like that, there’s plenty a’ time for us to be doin’ whatever we wanna with ’im,” Pancracio said, raising his rifle and aiming it at the prisoner.
“What kind of animals are you?” the unknown man demanded.
But he was unable to say anything further because Anastasio slapped him across the face with the back of his hand, snapping the prisoner’s now-blood-drenched head backward.
“Kill the damned mongrel!”
“Hang ’im!”
“Burn the Federale alive!”
Shouting and howling and all worked up, they started to ready their rifles.
“Hush, hush. Quiet now! I think Demetrio is talking,” Anastasio said, urging them to calm down.
Demetrio did as a matter of fact want to find out what was going on, so he had the prisoner brought to him.
“It’s a disgrace, dear leader, just look. Look!” Luis Cervantes exclaimed, showing Demetrio the blood on his pants and his swollen mouth and nose.
“Enough, enough. For God’s sakes then, just tell me, who are you?” Demetrio demanded.
“My name is Luis Cervantes. I am a medical student and a journalist. I was pursued, trapped, and made a prisoner— all for having said something in favor of the revolutionaries. ”
The story that he proceeded to tell of his most recent adventure, in his bombastic style, made Pancracio and Lard double over with laughter.
“I have sought to make myself understood, to convince your men here that I am truly a coreligionist.”
“A co-re a . . . what?” Demetrio inquired, perking up his ears.
“A coreligionist, dear leader, which is to say, that I am a believer of the same ideals and that I fight for the same cause as you and your men.”
Demetrio smiled.
“Well, tell me, then: what cause exactly are we fighting for?”
Disconcerted, Luis Cervantes did not know how to answer.
“Look at ’im, look at that expression on his face! Why make ’im jump through so many hurdles? Can’t we go ahead and shoot ’im dead now, Demetrio?” Pancracio asked anxiously.
Demetrio brought his hand up to the tuft of hair covering one of his ears and scratched for a long while as he considered the situation. Then, unable to find a satisfactory solution, he said:
“Get outta here, everyone. My wound’s startin’ to hurt again. Anastasio, blow out that flame. And lock this one up in the corral. And Pancracio and Lard, you watch over ’im. We’ll decide what to do with ’im tomorrow.”
VI
Still unable to discern the specific shapes of the objects around him by the dim light of the starry nights, Luis Cervantes searched about for the best place to rest. Eventually he brought his exhausted bones to a pile of wet manure and laid his long body down under the broad canopy of a huisache tree. More out of sheer fatigue than resignation, he forced himself to close his eyes, determined to sleep until his fierce guards woke him up, or until the morning sun burned his head—whi
chever came first. But he felt some kind of vague warmth next to him, followed by a coarse and labored breathing, and he began to tremble. He reached his shaking hand out and touched the bristling hairs of a pig. The animal, in all likelihood annoyed by the man’s proximity, began to grunt.
All of Luis Cervantes’s efforts to sleep after that were in vain. Not because of the pain in his wounded limb, nor that which he felt all over his battered and bruised body, but because of the vivid and clear failure he sensed within himself.
Yes. He had not realized early enough how great the distance would be between handling a verbal scalpel—between hurling factious bolts from the columns of a provincial newspaper—and coming out with a rifle in hand to hunt out the bandits in their own den. He was already beginning to suspect his mistake when he was discharged as a cavalry second lieutenant, at the end of the first day. It had been a brutal day in which they had covered fourteen leagues, leaving his hips and knees stiff as a board, as if all his bones had fused into one. He finally understood it eight days later, at the first encounter with the rebels. He could swear upon the Holy Bible itself that when the soldiers had brought their Mausers up to take aim, someone behind him had said in an extremely loud voice: “Every man for himself!” This was so clearly so that his own spirited, noble steed, which was otherwise accustomed to combat, had turned on its hind legs and galloped away, without stopping until they were at a very safe distance from where the firing of the rifles could be heard. By then the sun was already setting, the mountains filling with vague, unsettling shadows, and the darkness was quickly rising from the bottom of the ravines. Was there anything more logical for him to do, then, than to search for shelter among the boulders, and to rest his weary bones and spirit and try to sleep? But a soldier’s logic is the logic of the absurd. For the following morning his colonel kicks him awake and drags him out of his hiding place, and proceeds to bash his face in. And there is more yet: the officers find this so deeply hilarious, they are so beside themselves with laughter, that all of them beg that the fugitive be pardoned. So the colonel, instead of sentencing him to be shot by firing squad, gives him a hearty kick on his behind and sends him to take care of the pots and pans as a helper in the kitchen.
This gravest of affronts was to yield its venomous fruits. From then on Luis Cervantes would change uniform, although only in mente for the time being. The suffering and the misery of the dispossessed would eventually move him; he is to see their cause as the sublime cause of an oppressed people demanding justice, pure justice. He becomes friends with the humblest of the common soldiers, and one day even comes to shed tears of compassion for a mule that dies at the end of an arduous journey.
Luis Cervantes thus made himself deserving of the goodwill of the troop. Some soldiers even dared to confide in him. One, a very serious soldier known for his calm, his moderation, and his reserve, told him: “I’m a carpenter. I had my mother, a little ol’ lady who hadn’t been able to get up from her chair for the last ten years because of her rheumatism. At midnight three soldiers grabbed me from my house. By the time I woke up, I myself was a soldier in the barracks. Then, by the time I went to sleep that night, I was already twelve leagues away from my hometown. A month ago we go by there with the troop again, and my mother’s already six feet under! There was nothin’ in this life to console her no more. Now no one needs me. But with God above in the heavens as my witness, I swear that these cartridges that I’m carryin’ right here are not gonna be used for the enemies. And if the miracle of miracles is granted to me, if the Most Holy Mother of Guadalupe1grants me the miracle, and I am allowed to join Villa,2then I swear on my mother’s blessed soul that I’ll make these Federales pay for it.”
Another, a young soldier—very intelligent but a real blabbermouth who was an alcoholic and a marijuana smoker— called him apart, looked straight at him with his hazy, glassy eyes, and whispered into his ear: “Compadre, those men . . . Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Those men on the other side . . . Do you understand? They ride the choicest horses from the stables of the north and the interior, the harnesses on their horses are made of pure silver. And us? Pshaw! We ride sardines that can barely pull a pail out of a chain pump. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, compadre? Those men, the ones on the other side, they get shiny, heavy gold coins. And us? We get lousy paper money made in the factory of that murderer.3What I’m tryin’ to say is . . .”
They all went on like this. There was even a second sergeant who ingenuously told him: “It’s true, I enlisted, but I really made a mess of it when I chose this side. What in times of peace you’d never make in a lifetime of workin’ like a mule, today you can make in just a few months of runnin’ through the Sierra with a rifle on your back. But not with these men, brother, not with these men . . .”
And Luis Cervantes, who already shared with the common soldier this concealed, implacable, and mortal hatred toward the upper classes, the officers, and all superiors, felt that the very last strands of a veil were being lifted from his eyes, as he now saw clearly what the outcome of the struggle had to be.
“And yet here I am today. When I finally arrive to join my coreligionists, instead of welcoming me with open arms, they lock me up in a pigsty . . .”
Morning arrived: the roosters crowed in the shacks, while the chickens stirred about on the branches of the huisache trees in the corral, spread their wings out, ruffled their feathers, and jumped straight down to the ground.
Luis Cervantes observed his guards, lying down in the manure, snoring. In his imagination the physiognomies of the two men from the evening before came back to life. One, Pancracio, was light-haired, beardless, with a freckled face, protruding chin, flat, slanted forehead, ears smeared onto his cranium, and all in all he displayed a bestial appearance. The other, Lard, barely looked human, with sunken, grim eyes, thick, always parted reddish lips, and very straight hair that came down to his neck, over his forehead and ears.
Once again Luis Cervantes began to tremble.
VII
Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand over the curled tufts of hair covering his wet forehead, pushed it aside toward one of his ears, and opened his eyes.
He heard the melodious feminine voice he had already been hearing distinctly in his dreams, and turned toward the door.
It was daytime: the rays of sunlight darted through the hut’s straw roof. The same girl who, the evening before, had offered him a little gourd full of deliciously cold water (his dreams throughout the night), now entered—just as sweet and affectionate—with a pot of milk, its foam spilling over.
“It’s goat’s milk, and it’s more than good. Go on now, try it.”
Grateful, Demetrio smiled, sat up, and took the earthenware bowl. He started taking small sips without moving his eyes from the girl.
Restless, she lowered hers.
“What’s your name?”
“Camila.”
“I’m likin’ that name, and even more your sweet little voice.”
Camila blushed all over. Then, seeing that he tried to reach out and grab her wrist, she picked up the empty bowl and very quickly fled the hut, frightened.
“No, compadre Demetrio,” Anastasio Montañés remarked seriously. “You have to break ’em in first. H’m. If I was to tell you all the marks that women have left on my body! I’ve got a lot of experience with all that.”
“I feel fine, compadre,” Demetrio said, pretending he had not heard him. “I think I got the chills. I sweated a lot and woke up very refreshed. What’s still bothering me is the damned wound. Call Venancio so he can cure me.”
“So what should we do with that curro who I caught last night, then?” Pancracio asked.
“Oh, tha’s right! I’d forgotten all about ’im.”
Demetrio, as always, thought and hesitated much before making a decision.
“Let’s see, Quail, come here. Listen. Find out how to get to a chapel tha’s about three leagues from here. Then go and steal t
he priest’s cassock.”
“But what are we gonna do, compadre?” Anastasio asked, dumbfounded.
“If this curro has come to kill me, it’s very easy to get the truth out of ’im. I’ll tell ’im that I’m havin’ ’im shot to death. Then Quail dresses up like a priest and takes his confession. If he confesses to the sin, I do ’im in. If not, I let ’im go.”
“H’m, so much ado! I should’ve just blasted ’im and finished it right then and there,” Pancracio exclaimed contemptuously.
That evening Quail returned with the priest’s cassock. Demetrio had the prisoner brought to him.
Luis Cervantes came in. He had not slept or eaten in two days, his face was pale, he had bags under his eyes, and his lips were colorless and parched.
He spoke slowly and awkwardly.
“Do with me what you will. I was probably wrong about you and your men.”
There was a drawn-out silence. And then:
“I thought that you would gladly accept someone who came to offer his help, as small as my help may be to you, and yet of benefit only to you. What do I care, after all, if the revolution succeeds or not?”
As he spoke out loud, he slowly began to regain his confidence, and eventually the languor in his eyes began to fade.
“The revolution benefits the poor, the ignorant. It is for him who has been a slave his entire life, for the wretched who do not even know that they are so because the rich man transforms the blood, sweat, and tears of the poor man into gold—”
“Bah! What’re we supposed to do with all of that? I never cared much for sermons!” Pancracio interrupted.
“I wanted to fight the blessed struggle of the poor and the weak. But you do not understand me, you reject me. And so I say: do with me what you will!”
“Well, maybe I’ll just put this here rope ’round your throat, which sure is nice ’n chubby ’n white, isn’t it now?”
“Yeah, I know what you’re here for,” Demetrio responded sharply, scratching his head. “I’m havin’ you shot to death, eh?”
The Underdogs Page 4
