March to the Monteria

by B. TRAVEN

  “You would’ve done the same, mad as I was when I realized that I had been framed by those two bastards. On that day when I believed you to be a capataz.”

  “I might have.”

  “And I can tell you right now, that other whoring bastard won’t reach the montería either. Perhaps the other cabrón que chi- su madre, won’t even be buried with an Ave Maria. He most probably will be eaten by buzzards and wild pigs. I can’t do anything about it. It is just his fate. It’s written in the stars. See?”

  Andrés laughed. “Well, fate sometimes makes remarkable mistakes?”

  “What do you mean?” Celso asked suspiciously.

  “When El Zorro’s horse arrived here at the paraje, you paid no attention. But I took a close look. Just because you had predicted everything so precisely, I was curious to see how fate worked. And now see here: when a rope opens in a loop and the loop falls around the neck of a horse, let’s say owing to some clumsy move, the loop slowly opens more and more until, finally, it drags for its entire length after the horse.”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps not,” Celso said quietly, rinsing his mouth.

  “But this rope, as I noticed, could not come loose. The loop had been tied so fast at the noose that the horse could have run a full day and the saddle would never have slipped off.”

  “Well observed, manito. You’re more intelligent than I thought. But a rope can get tightened by itself if the loop gets warped and if it hasn’t been coiled properly from the beginning.”

  Andrés scrubbed a little pot, in which he had cooked his frijoles, with sand. “Right,” he said. “Fate acts in such a way that a rope or the harness traces of a carreta get into such a queer knot that it has to be cut. And it does it all of its own. But,” and now Andrés grinned widely, “I’d like to know the kind of fate that makes an experienced horseman like El Zorro get his left foot into the right stirrup. How El Zorro must have straddled his horse to squeeze his left foot into the right stirrup no fate can clear up for me.”

  “Lagarto, lagarto,” said Celso. “Damn it all, now that I come to think of it, I almost believe you’re right, manito.”

  “Of course I’m right. I was prepared for fate so I did not get excited, and therefore, I saw many things the others did not see.”

  “Are you sure nobody else noticed it?”

  “Not even Don Ramón. And I’ll tell you why. The saddle was almost completely under the horse’s belly. In that position of the saddle it looked, of course, as if the right foot was in the right stirrup. All those standing around only looked at the smashed and torn skull of El Zorro, because it was gruesome and interesting. And besides, they cut that cabrón free so fast from the stirrup that nobody had time to think what foot was hanging from which stirrup.”

  Celso laughed and said: “Well observed and well judged. But I’m not as easily caught as all that, hermanito. Not by you. Not by any agent. And much less by any damned chief of police.”

  “But I’m not talking of you, cuate.”

  “Whether you’re talking about me or about fate or about hell, is muck and fuck to me. At the paraje La Lagunita El Zorro was still alive and in charge of the rear, as you know.”

  “All right, all right! Granted El Zorro always had the rear guard under him. So what?”

  “Did I march with the rear guard?”

  “Let me think. No, that’s right. You were not with the rear guard.”

  “Right, sonny. Right. Correctly observed. All along the whole march I was with the boys from Cahancú, far in front of the main group, practically in the middle, where the mules marched. Just ask any of the muchachos from Cahancú and they’ll tell you it’s God’s truth. So what have I got to do with that stinking corpse if I wasn’t with the rear guard and was marching along with the first group of the troop?”

  For a while Andrés was quiet. Then he said: “Well, I’ll be a goddamned cabrón. I can’t make heads or tails out of all this. I’ve been thinking in all seriousness that you helped fate along with a little push.”

  “I? But Andrés, how can you say something like that? I? That miserable coyote? There you missed the mark by a mile. I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you, compa, because I trust you. But I can’t claim any praise for what I didn’t do.”

  “Well then, I’d like to know who did get even with that pest.”

  “Who? You want to know? Here in this troop there are a hundred and fifty or two hundred, all forced to march to the montería. Ask any of those two hundred if he would not have joyfully cut El Zorro’s throat with his machete if he had a chance to do so without the risk of being discovered. Every one of the whole bunch would have done it. And so would I and so would you. So it’s up to you to guess which of them was the jackass stupid enongh to squeeze the left foot into the right stirrup. If you think I’m that dumb, that I don’t know which stirrup the left foot belongs in, then you’re just as dumb as the guy who did it. Perhaps one of those young sheep from a small godforsaken little village, one of those stupid Inditos who don’t even know which end of a horse has the tail and which the ears. But not an old experienced coffee finca hand like good ol’ Celso. I know which foot goes in the right stirrup and how to coil a rope properly so that it won’t tie in a knot at the noose all by itself. And since none of all this nonsense concerns me, sonny, I am going to lie right now on my petate and get me some good, sound sleep. I don’t need any drop of aguardiente to keep me from dreaming of ghosts who have lost their faces.”

  “You’re right, Celso. I’m tired, too,” said Andrés.

  While the two strolled back to their fire, Celso said: “When I worked on that coffee finca, one day they celebrated the saint’s day of the finquero. So el cura comes to hold service. And since I had hurt my foot with a machete, I could not work that day. So I stay outside, right near the door of the little church, where all the ladinos are listening to the prattle. And I just happen to hear el cura say: ‘De todos modos, hijos míos, la mejor almohada es una consciencia limpia,’ by which he meant to say, ‘there is no softer pillow than a clean conscience.’ I’ll remember that always because el cura put it so well. And so tonight, see, manito, I’ll sleep like an angel in Heaven because I’ve got a pure, clean conscience. And once we get to the Santa Clara Lake, I’ll have a much better and much cleaner conscience still. Buenas noches, manito.”

  29

  The march on the following day was as monotonous as the previous days had been since they left the last settlement.

  El Camarón was in charge of the rear. His crony’s accident had had a very serious effect upon him. He hardly slept during the night. Over and over again he found himself pondering El Zorro’s fate. All morning he had been uneasy. Something he could not define was nagging him. During the march he started wondering how it could have been possible that an old hand like El Zorro could fall off his horse. And even if he had fallen off, how had it been possible that he could not hold back the horse and free himself from the stirrup? The only explanation he could arrive at was that El Zorro had struck his head on a rock, become unconscious, and before regaining consciousness had been bruised and beaten so hard that he died.

  Scared as he was, El Camarón had been unwilling to take charge of the rear guard. He preferred the safe center.

  But Don Gabriel knew how to tackle him. “Oye, maldito cobarde, you goddamned coward, we’re not taking you along just for your health, you wretched bastard. I see you’ve already got your pants full of shit. What do I care? Back home and hide behind old women’s skirts. Good for nothing! We can manage without you. No room in this here outfit for sissies and less so for cowards. Home you go. And right now. You heard me! Off with you!”

  To have to march back alone from the middle of the jungle was far worse than to take charge of the rear. So The Shrimp obeyed orders.

  He tried to be friendly with the stragglers and keep them close by his side. At the same time he tried to be near the troop so the blow of his whistle could be heard.

  However, the
peons, agile as cats, and from childhood on accustomed to march and wander over similar ground, took short cuts wherever feasible. In spite of their heavy packs they slid down rocks, jumped lightly over swampy stretches and climbed over gigantic fallen trees. El Camarón, on horseback, had to follow the entire length of the trail. There were periods when he found himself completely alone on the trail. It was then that he felt afraid.

  He moderated his harshness against the peons to such a degree that he appeared ridiculous to himself. He tried keeping the stragglers close to him by every imaginable trick. The peons, though, were not deceived. They realized that El Camarón had lost his grip on himself. They also knew very well that El Camarón, however amiable he was for the moment, would make up for it once they had reached the montería. As soon as they saw a short cut they took it and disappeared over the rocks.

  This made El Camarón feel all the more uneasy and increased his fear. By now he had become absolutely convinced that someone in the troop had helped El Zorro to meet his end.

  Celso was the one El Camarón suspected least of all the men. Celso gave him the impression of an Indian who was mentally lazy and who did his work like an ox, satisfied when he did not fall behind his daily quota.

  Celso was not the only man in the troop whom he and El Zorro had hooked for the agents who paid them. There were several, now that he came to think of it, who seemed vengeful and therefore dangerous. Among them, Andrés. The thought got hold of El Camarón that he must guard himself especially against Andrés. Andrés was intelligent and at times openly defiant, given to arguing and backtalk. Worse still, he did not go to the montería on his own and for his personal debts, but in replacement for his old father. So, more than anyone else in the troop, he had reason to be in a vindictive mood.

  Around one o’clock in the afternoon, the troop arrived at the Santo Domingo River.

  Camp was pitched on the opposite bank after the difficult river was forded.

  30

  Andrés, enjoying a self-rolled cigar, was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree a fair distance away from the camp site. He heard a noise. He turned around, gazed at the thicket and thought he saw Celso dart like a shadow from one clearing to the next. The dimness would not allow a clear view but he felt convinced that it was Celso apparently stalking a deer.

  He now looked in the direction taken by Celso and noticed, ahead of Celso, El Camarón who, with his hands on his belt, was obviously trying to find an adequate site to attend to some personal business where thorny shrubs would not annoy him too much.

  El Camarón was wholly unaware that someone was pursuing him.

  Andrés got up and returned to the camp, tending his fire and heating some coffee.

  Night closed in rapidly.

  After ten minutes or so Celso arrived quietly, sat down close to Andrés, and put his beans and his coffee in the embers.

  “Strange,” said Andrés. “I haven’t seen El Camarón during the whole day.”

  “Are you so deeply in love with him that you can’t live without seeing that viper?” Celso asked in a very cool voice. “He’s now in charge of the rear and you and I march in the first column of the troop. What do you care about that whoring bastard? To hell with him.”

  Squatting at the same fire, Paulino grumbled: “Now listen, you boys. Once we’re in the montería you’ll learn damned soon why we should care about him. I tell you if only I had the guts I’d kill that cabrón just like a louse. That’s what I’d do, por la Purísima! But the trouble is I’m too much of a coward.”

  “Forget it. But what would you think if by a dumb accident, I say accident, he disappeared into the Santa Clara Lake?” Celso squinted his eyes as he said that. It was not clear whether he did so intentionally or whether the smoke coming from the fire bit into his eyes.

  “And how is he to fall into the lake?” Paulino asked, grinning all over his face.

  “Hey, you, Andrés,” Santiago broke in, “if we were here with our carretas he wouldn’t last very long. Or would he?”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Andrés, “do what you like. Let him live. Just give him enough rope and most surely one day he’ll hang himself.”

  “That’s what I think,” said Celso. “Let him live. And about that hanging, it isn’t such a crazy idea as one might think. He has his pants full because he’s afraid. He runs about talking nonsense, saying that El Zorro is after him, because he took his money and his ring. Pants full of shit, that’s what he has.”

  “Por todos los diablos, who took my salt?” yelled Paulino.

  “Don’t kick up a row about a few grains of salt,” said Santiago. “Here is your damned salt. Stuff yourself with it and I hope you choke.”

  “About half an hour ago I saw El Camarón disappearing into the bushes,” said Celso. “Perhaps he was already looking for a tree to hang himself. But by my opinion his pants were too full to do it by himself. Somebody must help him along, so the rope won’t break off. And once he hangs he’ll go to hell like oiled lightning, and there he’ll be greeted by El Zorro who’s going to tell him a few things on account of the money and also on account of that diamond ring.”

  “Was no diamond ring,” said Santiago.

  “Sure it was a diamond ring,” Paulino insisted. “You’re just the one to tell me that I don’t know about diamonds. I’ve had more diamonds in my bare hands than you can count up to. When did you ever see a diamond in all your life? You tell me. Perhaps on your oxen, goats and sheep. Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Now don’t be fighting over diamonds we don’t have,” said Andrés. “What business is it of ours whether it was a diamond or I don’t know what.”

  “Andrés is right, it was no diamond,” said Santiago. “It’s a blue topaz.”

  “It’s nothing but a piece of common, ordinary glass, and the ring isn’t gold either,” said another of the boys, Otilio, who was also squatting at the fire and who rarely took part in the conversation of the four.

  “You, of course, know everything very well,” said Santiago, sarcastically. “And I happen to know that the ring is genuine and worth no less than one hundred pesos. Of course the whoring bastard didn’t buy the ring. Up there, near Copainala, he assaulted and killed a Spanish trader and buried him right on the spot and took the ring and all his money.”

  “Hey, you, Paulino, go and fetch some fuel, the fire is going out,” shouted Celso. “These goddamned beans won’t get cooked today, and before morning, en la madrugada, I won’t get a bite. One can starve here and not a soul in the world gives a damn. Up with you, mozo, get us some wood.”

  “You get your own wood,” said Paulino. “And besides I’m not your mozo.”

  “Get a move on or I’ll paste you one on the trap,” said Celso, wielding a stick.

  “Paste me one on the trap, you and who else?” Paulino shouted furiously.

  “All right, you remain sitting on your stinking hams, Paul-inito,” Andrés intervened. “I’ll go and fetch the wood. Because it won’t come by itself. And since Celso cooks our grub we can’t expect him to fetch the wood, too.”

  “Well, let’s go together,” said Paulino, now calm. “Why shouldn’t I fetch the wood? But that guy over there isn’t going to order me around. He’s as much a damn son of a street whore as I am myself.”

  It was a long evening for the boys. Once they had started to chatter there seemed to be no end to it during the whole night and nobody got much sleep.

  In the early morning, when it was still pitch dark, all the fires burned brightly to boil coffee and heat beans left over from supper. These were mixed with totopostles and chile to get something solid into the stomach at the beginning of the day.

  Breakfast out of the way, Celso, Andrés, Paulino, Santiago and some others began getting their packs ready.

  Paulino covered the fire with earth and picked up the pine splinters which had not been used up completely. He pushed the charred sticks into his pack.

  The muchachos squatted a
round and took the last draught of coffee from their little tin cans, which once emptied were placed on top of the pack or pushed into the opening of the net.

  Suddenly the voice of Don Gabriel was heard: “Hey, you, Camarón, you goddamned loafing cabrón that you are, maldito golfo, where are you whoring around? You come right here, I say.”

  Andrés jerked his body. He looked at Celso, who remained squatting indifferently on the ground, slowly swinging his little tin cup still filled with some coffee, and grunting to himself: “Shit, shat, shot, corruption and goddamn hell!”

  It was still dark, but dawn was coming up fast. Everything took on a gray-bluish shimmering tint.

  Andrés could see enough of Celso’s face. He was astonished at Celso’s indifference. Not an eyelash moved in Celso’s face.

  But now Celso became aware that Andrés was looking at him attentively with a question simmering on his tightly closed lips.

  “Hey, you dirty ox-driver, what are you staring at me like that for?” he said, bad-humoredly. “Do you want me to knock out a few of your teeth this early in the morning? I’m in just the right mood for it. I could strangle you or even myself. That’s the way I feel, see!”

  “Ahorita, jefe,” El Camarón’s voice came from the thicket. “Just a moment, a second. I’ll be along, a sus órdenes, patrón.”

  “Bueno,” shouted Don Gabriel, “we’re off. You take the tail as usual, and start counting right here and see that nobody is missing. Make sure of it and don’t come later with a sack full of damn excuses.”

  “Muy bien, jefe,” came El Camarón’s answer.

  Celso looked at Andrés, got up, lifted his pack and said: “Come on, ox-driver. We’re in the first column.”

  After they had marched for a while side by side, Celso opened up: “Just what have you been thinking?” He grinned. “I know ‘xactly what you’ve been thinking. I’m not a prophet and not a reader of the stars for nothing. But you’re up the wrong tree. You see, when you or any of the guys think of something, nothing happens. Only when you don’t think at all and don’t see anything, that’s when fate works. Besides, I was watching you closely yesterday, when you saw me flitting about. I was after a tepescuintle. Some fresh meat wouldn’t do us any harm. And another thing, manito, we haven’t yet come to the Santa Clara Lake. It’s still two good days from here. Within two days and deep in the jungle lots of things can happen.”