by B. TRAVEN
For a while Don Anselmo did not comment on these rather frequent stops.
But when, within two hours, they stopped for the third time, took off their packs and delayed the march, he shouted angrily: “Hey, muchachos, esto no sirve pa’ nada. This won’t do. If we continue like this, we won’t reach camp today. You know damned well we can’t camp in a swamp. We got to make the next paraje. Get up. Get going.”
One of the men mumbled something in Tseltsal. Don Anselmo had the sense of a diplomat not to ask him what he meant. A few of the boys acted as though they hadn’t heard what Don Anselmo had said. Phlegmatically they continued to knead pozol in their jicaras and took all the time in the world before packing up again. So clumsily did they do it that one might wonder if they had ever known how to pack. The majority, however, got up rapidly, took up their packs and were already marching while the rest still squatted by the brook, rinsing their gourds.
Even after the march had been progressing for quite a while Don Anselmo remained in the rear to see that nobody was missing. When he caught up again he noticed that the muchachos were unusually quiet. No one spoke. Since all of them were barefoot they marched in absolute silence. The only noise that Don Anselmo could hear was the squeaking of his own saddle and the groaning and rustling of the packs on the backs of the mules.
And now, for the first time in his life, Don Anselmo was afraid. Suddenly it dawned upon him that he had placed himself in a most dangerous situation. He thought of the many things which might happen to him any minute now. Suppose the men started a mutiny. For the first time he fully realized that he was alone in the depths of the jungle with a large group of Bachajon Indians who, because of their rebellious nature, had the worst reputation in the whole state. They certainly had not the slightest interest whatever in his life or in his well-being. On the contrary, they had no wish whatever to see him alive and happy. He knew that he was completely defenseless and at their mercy. He was a good enough marksman to shoot six of them, but the twenty left alive would not give him time to recharge his gun.
When his thoughts reached this point a sudden terror overcame him. What if he had lost his gun? What if one of the men had picked it up? That most likely was the reason why they had been so obstinate at the brook and why one of them had even started to grumble aloud, with no respect at all for him. With a rapid movement his hand went back to find the heavy grip of his revolver.
Drawing the gun from the holster, while casually riding on, he made sure the chambers were loaded and the safety catch was working. He pushed the gun back into its holster and lit a cigarette.
But several men marching behind him had seen his hasty movement in search of the gun. They looked at one another. Wide grins appeared on some faces. Don Anselmo’s anxious checking of the weapon had betrayed something which he had hoped to keep hidden for all eternity: that he could be afraid.
At the next brook, when the men rested again, he did not say a word. He let them do as they pleased. He, too, prepared his pozol Indian fashion but added a little sugar from a tin box to make the drink more appetizing.
Half an hour later the troop arrived at a river which had been named Las Tazas, The Cups, because of a queer formation of the stones in the river bed.
When the men again took off their packs and pulled out their jícaras, thus giving the impression that they intended to take another rest, not at all needed after so short a time, Don Anselmo became really infuriated.
In a shrieking voice he yelled: “Hey, you lousy bastards, get up and move on or by God Almighty we’ll never arrive at the monterías before All Saints Day. Up, up! Abran las piernas! I’ll tell you where and when to rest!”
He had stopped his horse in the middle of the river. The pack mules and the boy on horseback had already climbed the opposite bank and were trotting into the thick of the jungle without glancing back. The animals had not halted to drink because they had been sipping up water abundantly during the frequent rests of the troop.
Don Anselmo had transported Indian workers long enough to learn when and how often they must drink and mix their pozol to remain fit. Now this day was very hot, true. But an Indian can march for hours in much greater heat without whining for water. It would never have occurred to Don Anselmo to prevent the men from refreshing themselves when they came to a brook or a river, just as he would not have prevented his mules and horses from drinking.
What infuriated him was the fact that during the last three hours the men had at each watercourse made a real rest pause such as should be made only twice during a whole day’s march if one intends to arrive at the established paraje before night sets in.
One Bachajon, who sat on one of the stone cups in the water, yelled, with the same shrieking voice Don Anselmo had used: “You goddamned blasphemous dog of a ruthless devil, who are you to deny a poor nearly dying Indito a drink of the water which has been placed here in our road by the good God in Heaven? To hell and all its torments with you, you heathen offspring of a filthy, lousy whore.”
That an Indian, a peon, should dare shout something like that to a ladino was utterly incredible. Even if a peon was blind drunk from the worst aguardiente squeezed from an unlicensed still, he would never say anything like that. Not to a ladino. Bachajones, however, were not peons; they were free men from an independent Indian community, recognizing as their authority only the chieftains elected by them.
Like a flash it came to Don Anselmo that there must be some aguardiente, some real firewater, in the troop. In no other way could he explain the attitude of the men.
Generally, during the first two days of a march, there was some aguardiente in the packs, though it was used up so fast and so thoroughly that on the evening of the second day there seldom remained enough to get anybody drunk.
Whether some of the men might be drunk or not, was now beside the point. The mood was there and Don Anselmo realized that a mutiny was under way.
The boy leading the pack mules had already advanced a good distance ahead of the troop. For a fraction of a second Don Anselmo thought of whistling or calling him back. Yet at the same instant he decided it would be better to let the boy continue on his way. If he called him back and matters became really serious, he, too, would be killed. And Don Anselmo considered that a needless sacrifice.
Within three seconds a hundred plans, most of them utterly silly, flashed through his head.
He did not know whether he could count upon a single one of the men to stand by him. The six peons he had bought from a finca where they were indebted seemed to be safe to a certain extent. They would not attack him. They had too deep rooted a respect for a ladino. But he did not believe he could count on any of the Bachajones. Even if there were some among them not exactly hostile, they would not come to his assistance, being afraid of those who now seemed to be in command of the situation.
However, Don Anselmo had not sufficient time to ponder all these possibilities calmly and to arrive at a logical conclusion. Action would not wait for the result of his thoughts. He had not even enough time to establish, by a look around him, who were his enemies and who were neutral.
He was sitting on his horse in the middle of the river. Since some of the men had already been on the opposite bank of the river while others had kept in the rear, they now held both banks. Not only that, but several sat on the cups, those strange stone formations in the river.
At this section the river was not very deep, and therefore it had been forded here for the last forty years or so by caravans headed for the mahogany camps. The water came just below the hips of the men. By jumping from one cup to the next, one could cross the river at this point without even getting his calves wet.
Don Anselmo was completely cornered. All had happened so rapidly and unexpectedly that he only noticed it when there was no escape left. Nothing would help him now, not even a bold jump with his horse. The cups were distributed so unevenly in the river bed that, wherever the horse jumped to reach the opposite bank, it surely would fall
and probably break a leg. Horses and mules had to ford the river very cautiously to avoid accidents.
With a fast move Don Anselmo drew his gun. He had no intention of training his gun on the man who had reviled him, and he didn’t mean to shoot anybody. That would have done him no good whatever. He only drew his gun to have it ready in his hand and defend himself against his closest aggressor. Then if he reached the opposite bank he could ride a stretch and so gain time to think out a plan or just wait until the men came to their senses and quieted down.
18
Yet everything turned out differently from what he had calculated.
At the same time that he drew his gun his horse received a powerful blow on the rump with the broad side of a machete from one of the men who had jumped from a cup and landed close to the horse.
Because of the unexpected blow the horse reared up. And because the rider had not expected this, he slid down backward into the water.
Immediately he got up, pushing and dragging himself to the nearest cup. While he was stepping up on the side of the cup to be able to stand firmly on it and jump from there over a few more cups to the bank, one of the men leaped off the opposite cup and with a long stride passed over to the same cup which Don Anselmo was trying to reach. The Indian hit him a blow with the sharp edge of his machete straight across the face. Then another Indian came from behind and struck Don Anselmo a terrific blow on the right shoulder. The blow had been aimed at the head. If it had landed true that would have been the end of the fight. But while dragging himself up to the cup Don Anselmo had bent his head to one side precisely at the same instant that the blow was delivered. Yet even landing on the shoulder it would have sufficed to finish him off. Fortunately for him, however, he was wearing a leather pouch, a so-called morral, slung from a thick, broad strap over his right shoulder, and by the movement of his efforts to pull himself up, the strong iron buckle for lengthening or shortening the strap had slipped on top of the shoulder.
As a result this second blow caused him only a slight cut.
Don Anselmo did not whimper for mercy. He didn’t beg anybody not to murder the father of his children and the provider of his family. He was too good a Mexican for that. Before the two men could raise their machetes again and begin cutting him to pieces, he pulled his torso completely up on the cup and dealt the Indian who had slashed his face such a blow with the barrel of his gun against the kneecap that the man was going to be harmless for a good while.
Another pull brought Don Anselmo fully on the cup. But he did not stand up because he knew that one of the men was behind him. He did not actually see him but he had felt the man’s blow on his shoulder. As soon as he gained the top of the cup, he quickly twisted around and with his heavy spurred boot delivered such a savage kick in the groin of the man that he bent over with a yell of pain, slipped off the cup and writhed around in the water like a wounded alligator.
He, too, would be harmless for a few hours.
Indians, although by nature highly intelligent, have, as a rule, little experience for organization. The Bachajones, true to their race, did not know how to organize the situation they had created to their advantage. Unable to keep the final end in view, all those who had not actively participated in the fight simply sat where they had been sitting before the struggle started. They looked on passively as if it were a pantomime in a circus.
Four hundred years ago, this lack of talent for organization and intelligent planning had allowed the fiendish bandit and soulless cutthroat Cortés to slip out of a hopeless situation. Now it allowed Don Anselmo to escape with his life. Only one or two of the other men who were squatting around watching the fight as if it did not concern them in the least had to get up, grab a stone and throw it at Don Anselmo’s head. With one of the thick branches floating in the river the weakest of the muchachos could have killed him. If one of them had had the sense to yell: “Now, come on, let’s finish him,” that would have signaled the end.
But nobody did anything. The two who had launched the attack were now worrying about themselves. They did not think of attempting a second attack. And the old feeling of submission, of obedience and respect for the ladino rapidly regained its hold on their minds. They turned completely humble. By just wiggling his finger Don Anselmo could have ordered any of them, even his two attackers, to come close. And the man would have come, saying in a sheepish way: “A sus órdenes, patroncito, at your service.”
Though Don Anselmo knew that he had the situation well under control and that by now he could be more certain than ever of getting the troop to the montería, he was not yet ready to resume command.
The slash he had received across his face was keeping him low. His forehead was opened, the nose cut, one cheek parted down to the chin, baring his teeth. Thick blood ran down his face, so that he could hardly see. He bathed his head in the river, but the blood wouldn’t stop. At this moment he was absolutely unable to defend himself.
He pulled himself up to the bank and began to dip his bandanna into the water to wash his face, wringing it out and repeating this operation several times.
19
Don Anselmo kneeled on the river bank, soaked to the skin, bathing and cooling the open wound in his face. He was dead tired and had no will left to offer any resistance. Had any of the men beaten him with a heavy wet rag he would have keeled over like a rotten tree.
All around him, on both banks and on several cups in the river, the victors squatted. Some, not knowing what else to do, again prepared their pozol. Others busied themselves with their packs. And still others picked sand fleas from their toes or searched their legs, arms and naked torsos for those infinitely small prickles that rubbed off in the jungle from certain plants, so small that one can hardly see them, but nevertheless very painful and uncomfortable. Nobody bothered about the two men who had attacked Don Anselmo and who were now nursing themselves, one his kneecap and the other his groin.
There the Indians squatted, indecision in their every gesture, indecision in their low conversation as though they were afraid of waking somebody. And there was indecision even in their sideway glances toward Don Anselmo. They were the victors all right, but they did not know what to do with their victory. They could go back to their villages. Nobody would prevent them from doing so. If at this moment they gave Don Anselmo the final blow and buried him, not even the police would be after them for breach of contract, because there would be no plaintiff to press the case. And if they wanted to, after burying Don Anselmo, they could all march to the montería as volunteers. Since there would no longer be an agent to demand from the montería administration the advances given them, they would receive their full pay and, after two years, would return home with a handsome sum of money.
None of them were obligated to know what had happened to Don Anselmo. They were not his bodyguard. The boy who traveled along with the troop as Don Anselmo’s personal servant had seen nothing, because he was riding a long way ahead. The muchachos would make up a tale about Don Anselmo having seen a herd of jabalíes which he had followed to shoot one or two for fresh meat. The men had waited on the trail for an entire day and night, but he never came back. “Probably,” they could say, “the wild pigs knocked him down and then ate him while he was still half alive.” Or he might have fallen prey to a cougar, crouching on a tree under which Don Anselmo happened to pass. He also could have been bitten by a snake and perished in the depths of the jungle. Any of the hundreds of causes which may mean death for a human being in the jungle might have occurred. All they had to do was to agree on the same story. Instead they sat on their hams, waiting to see what would happen next.
Three of the men who had stopped on the same river bank where Don Anselmo knelt began a low-voiced discussion. Then they went to fetch green leaves from certain plants which they selected very carefully. Finally they approached Don Anselmo.
When he saw them come straight toward him, he reached for the gun lying by his side. Quite naturally he thought the three w
ere coming to finish him off. If he had to die he, as a true Mexican, was not the kind to take it lying down like a sick dog. He was resolved to take at least as many with him to hell as he could get in his last moment.
Aim carefully he could not because his hand was trembling owing to his great weakness. But he still managed to train his gun fairly well on the men.
He pulled the trigger. But the gun only went “pfish.” He pulled the trigger a second time and now the gun went “pfut.”
Don Anselmo let go with the most awful blasphemies against all the saints, appealed to the devil and to all the damnations he had ever heard of and, in the same breath, asked the saints and the Virgin to strike all ammunition makers on earth with smallpox, syphilis and cancer because they made such lousy stuff that an honest Mexican couldn’t even fall into a river without finding himself defenseless in front of his enemies.
The men watching him had noticed that on two successive occasions the gun failed to go off. Thus they realized once more that he was completely in their hands. They didn’t even need a club to liberate him from all his pains and further worries. A hard kick with a foot against his head would have sufficed to roll him into the river where he would drown.
But the men did nothing. They just squatted and looked with interest at the whole scene like people watching a show.
Without betraying by the slightest gesture that there was anything wrong with his gun, Don Anselmo opened the drum in a very businesslike manner, expelled the cartridges, threw them into the river shrieking: “Que chin—a sus madres y abuelas!” at the ammunition makers, extracted new cartridges from his belt and pushed them into the drum. He snapped the drum back into place, threw the gun up into the air so that it made two somersaults, deftly caught it again by the grip and pushed it back into the holster with an energetic gesture. He knew perfectly well that this reloading of the gun did not arm him again because the cartridges in the belt were just as soaked as those in the drum, if not more, because those inside the drum had, at least in part, been protected. But the showy manipulation was smart. He knew the men used only old muzzle-loaders for hunting and would, therefore, not know that the cartridges taken from the belt were not a whit more effective than those Don Anselmo had thrown into the river. It was nothing but a very hoary strategem, not unlike a hundred similar ones by which wars have been won and more rebellions lost than historians have recorded.
